My Brother is a Superhero

by David Solomons

  “A beard? Like Santa Claus?”

  “Yes, Luke, just like Santa.” She rolled her eyes. “No! Nothing like that. Matthias’s beard is … what’s the word?”

  I sensed that I wasn’t pulling my weight in this conversation, but I wanted to be helpful. “Fluffy? Furry? Fuzzy?”

  “Cool,” she decided.

  So, Cara’s boyfriend Matthias was a Viking with a cool beard. I wondered what else he had going for him. “Does he have a hammer?” I asked.

  “You mean for doing odd jobs around the house?”

  “No, for commanding the powers of the storm and smiting his eternal foes.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Winged helmet?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about a—”

  “Luke,” said Lara, cutting me off. “I need to clear my head for the interview, y’know?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, why don’t we walk the rest of the way … in silence?”

  According to the address that Lara had dug up, Christopher Talbot’s house had a name. Talbot Grange. From what I knew, people who gave their houses names seldom called them Trevor or Felicity. Instead they used words like Manor, Abbey or Grange. Houses like these had stone turrets with gargoyles and butlers called Fortescue and stuffed animal heads stuck to the walls, and they were set in gigantic gardens, called estates, with crunchy driveways that went on for miles, and woods full of stags and outlaws. So it came as something of a surprise, not to say disappointment, when we finally arrived outside Talbot Grange.

  “This can’t be right,” I said.

  We stood before an unremarkable semi-detached house: two up, two down, with a square bay window screened by a net curtain. The house had a driveway, but it was paved with bricks and noticeably failed to wind majestically through extensive woodland. The closest thing to a gargoyle on a turret that I could see was a one-legged pigeon wobbling on a TV aerial.

  Lara rang the bell. From inside I could hear answering chimes playing the first bars of the theme to the 1978 Superman movie.

  The net curtain twitched like a raised eyebrow and a moment later the door flew open and there stood a tall man dressed all in black. It wasn’t a butler, but Christopher Talbot himself. His suit shimmered like the wet hull of a Fast Attack submarine. His eyes were blue chips – not chips like you get with hamburgers, the other kind. I’d seen men with eyes like his on the covers of the novels Mum liked to read. They were usually muscly hunks holding a woman in a big dress with her head tilted back. Usually they were in a desert. Or a jungle. And the hunk always had thick, wavy hair.

  “Chris Talbot,” he introduced himself, pushing one hand through his thick, wavy hair, offering the other to Lara. “And you must be Laura,” he said, beaming at her.

  “Lara,” said Lara.

  He noticed me standing behind her on the doorstep. “And who’s your compatriot?” he asked in a friendly tone.

  “I’m the photographer,” I said, holding up the My Little Pony camera.

  Christopher Talbot shook my hand vigorously. He had a powerful grip and I could feel my bones being squeezed together. “Pleased to meet you…?”

  “Luke,” I said. “Luke Parker.”

  “So, Luke Parker, are you a comics fan?”

  “Oh yes. I spend all my pocket money and all my birthday money in your shop.”

  Christopher Talbot studied me carefully. “I thought you looked familiar.”

  He grinned, displaying two rows of toilet-bowl-white teeth. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.”

  We followed him inside to a narrow entrance hall. The floor was tiled black and white like a chessboard and his shoes made a hollow click as he led us towards a door at the end of the short hall. We stopped next to an unlit stone fireplace carved with the heads of mythological beasts. Griffins and wyverns watched us unblinkingly. A pair of basilisks looked at each other across the hearth, which was completely stupid of them since their gaze had obviously turned them both to stone. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Instead of an old-timey face with Roman numerals there was an engraving of Mister Fantastic, his incredible stretched arms forming the hands of the clock. The walls were decorated with rare comics in fancy golden frames. More comics lined a flight of stairs that led to a half-landing on which posed a life-sized model of Iron Man.

  There weren’t any photos, not on the wall or on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. When you go into our house that’s all you see. Dad is always making us pose for another family snap. I hate having my photograph taken, but it’s very hard saying no to someone who controls your pocket money. There were no photographs of Christopher Talbot and his family. Maybe he was an orphan, or maybe his family was really ugly.

  “Let me take your jackets,” he said. Instead of helping us out of them, however, his long fingers tapped a code into a keypad set above the mantelpiece. One of the framed comics slid aside and a mechanical arm extended from the space behind it in the wall, swaying like a cobra before dipping down to latch its metal pincers on to the collar of Lara’s blazer. At least, I think it meant to grab her collar, but it missed.

  “Aow!” she squealed, as it nipped her neck. “Get off!” She batted it away, but the coat-removing device was on some sort of automatic program. Down bobbed the snapping pincers again.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” said Christopher Talbot stabbing repeatedly at the keypad. “Just a teeny-weeny glitch.” The mechanical arm froze, pincers gleaming under the hall lights. “Ah, there. Told you.” With a motorised whine it retracted into the wall. “Now then,” he said, as if the Attack of the Killer Coat Rack hadn’t happened, “I’ll have my robot butler serve us tea in the library.”

  Lara gasped. “You have a library?”

  I caught her eye. Really?

  “Mr Talbot,” I piped up, “did you say robot butler?”

  “Indeed I did, young man. It’s a hobby of mine. I designed and built him myself. In fact, I built all of the machines you see in this house.”

  “Even the dishwasher?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” admitted Christopher Talbot, “it’s a Bosch. I mean I built all of the cool machines in the house. Like the robot butler and the auto-coat-rack and the bionic toilet.”

  I decided immediately that if his bionic toilet worked anything like his coat-rack I wasn’t going anywhere near it. I crossed my legs and tried not to think of running water.

  Christopher Talbot pushed open a door and led us into the library, which was really just the front room. The walls were lined with bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling. All the books had red leather covers with their titles picked out in gold letters. Most of them said “Reader’s Digest”. A chandelier dangled like a giant earring, the fancy ones Mum wears when she and Dad go to the office Christmas party. The chandelier was far too big for the room and hung so low that we had to squeeze past in single file. Christopher Talbot motioned us to take a seat on a velvet sofa with wooden legs that ended in dragon-claws. He lowered himself into a sleek armchair across from us and steepled his fingers. He watched us steadily. Lara drew out her notebook while I searched the room.

  “Mr Talbot, may I see your robot butler, please?” I asked.

  A smile flickered across his face and with a casual swipe he flipped up the arm of his chair to reveal a control unit. He reached inside for a wand-like metal rod with a bulbous black head. Some kind of microphone. Putting his mouth to it, he cleared his throat and said, “Our guests are ready for their tea.”

  A hatch in one of the bookcases flew up and out trundled his robot. To be honest, when he said he had a robot butler I had imagined something a bit more impressive: a Dalek with a bow tie, for instance, or a Sentinel with a plate of cucumber sandwiches. The thing before me was disappointingly neither.

  It was about the size of a bagless vacuum cleaner, ran on tracks that appeared to have been taken from a radio-controlled tank and carried a silver tray on which balanced a teapot, three cups and
saucers and a plate of custard creams. Its head looked like it had been made from an old reading lamp, with a flexible neck and one big flashing eye. It juddered across the floor, causing the cups to rattle against their saucers, and came to a stuttering stop at Christopher Talbot’s knee, sloshing tea from the spout of the pot.

  “I call him Tal-bot,” said Christopher Talbot proudly.

  “Tea. Is. Served,” announced Tal-bot in a halting, mechanical voice. I’d heard calculators with better speech synthesisers.

  “I see you’re impressed,” said Christopher Talbot, cocking an eyebrow.

  I didn’t want to be rude, so I nodded. “Oh yes, it’s amazing.”

  “Ha!” he said delightedly. “If you think that’s amazing—”

  I didn’t.

  “—wait till you see … this!” He lifted the microphone to his lips. “Tal-bot, engage jet pack!”

  Nothing happened for a long time. Lara and I exchanged awkward glances, not sure if we should speak up.

  “Tal-bot. Engage. Jet. Pack,” repeated Christopher Talbot, his smile rigid, his forehead shiny with sweat.

  “En-gage-ing,” Tal-bot answered finally. The back cover of the robot glided open and what looked to me suspiciously like a miniature jet engine poked out. A roar built as the engine spooled up. I didn’t know much about jet propulsion beyond the basics, but even I could tell that if it really was a functioning engine then it was far too big for the pint-sized robot.

  The jet roar grew, filling the room, and the air around the hot exhaust shimmered and warped. The robot shook. The tea tray vibrated, the cups, saucers and pot inching their way to the edge before tumbling off and smashing to pieces on the floor. Christopher Talbot didn’t seem to mind about the mess. My mum would have.

  There was a boom and a blur as something shot straight up. It ripped through the glass chandelier like a Wampa ice-monster brushing aside stalactites, then speared straight through the ceiling, opening a ragged hole in the floor above.

  From a safe distance behind the sofa, Lara and I gawped at the damage. Shards of chandelier glass and lumps of plaster rained gently to the floor. Where Tal-bot had once stood there was now only a smoking black mark, a single tread from its rubber tracks and a scattering of custard cream crumbs. I had been correct about the jet engine. It had torn free from its mountings and flown into the ceiling, its superheated exhaust gases reducing the robot butler to a smouldering blot on the rug.

  Christopher Talbot hadn’t moved. He sat silently in his command chair, sporting the same fixed smile, the microphone frozen to his lips.

  “Mr Talbot, are you all right?” asked Lara, peeking out from behind the sofa.

  A chunk of plaster bounced off Christopher Talbot’s head, sprinkling his hair with white dust.

  “Fine,” he said in a quiet voice. “Now, how about that interview?”

  17

  CRYSTAL CLEAR

  For a fake interview Lara asked a lot of questions. While she quizzed him I took photos.

  “The comic book business is booming,” said Christopher Talbot in response to Lara’s latest query. “People always need superheroes, but especially when times are hard. We all want something to believe in. So the arrival of Star Lad has been the biggest thing to happen in years. The world has been wishing for a real superhero since the golden age of comics, and now here we have one. In our own backyard!”

  Lara wrote down everything he said in a reporter’s spiral-bound A5 notebook. Her handwriting was long and loopy, like a monkey swinging through the jungle.

  “The golden age was the 1930s and 40s,” I added for her benefit. “That’s when Superman first arrived from Krypton. In Action Comics, not in real life.”

  “That’s right,” said Christopher Talbot. “You know your stuff, Luke. Very impressive. But now Superman – or Star Lad – is really among us. How about that?”

  He was comparing Zack to Superman! OK, I had to say something. My brother might have been a superhero, but Superman was the greatest superhero of all time. Star Lad was a fourteen-year-old boy who couldn’t even wee straight, if the drips on the toilet bowl were anything to go by.

  “He’s not really like Superman,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, for a start, he doesn’t have super strength, he can’t fly and he should wear a cape,” I grumbled.

  Christopher Talbot laughed. “Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing. If I were a superhero, I’d wear a cape and a mask.”

  “Exactly!” Frankly it was a relief talking to someone who understood the importance of these things.

  “If Star Lad’s not careful,” he went on, his tone darkening, “that hoodie of his might blow off in a sudden gust of wind and then where would he be, hmm? Exposed on the six o’clock news, that’s where.” He shook his head gravely. I could tell he thought it would be a terrible thing if Star Lad’s secret identity were revealed. And at that moment, looking at the concern etched on his face, I suspected I knew the truth about Christopher Talbot. Thinking about all the gadgets in his house and his supreme love of comic books, it became clear. As clear as the Bat-Signal on a dark night. As clear as the Arc Reactor on Iron Man’s chest.

  Crystal Comics clear.

  Christopher Talbot longed to be a superhero as much as I did.

  “But capeless or not,” he went on, “thanks to Star Lad the interest in superheroes has never been greater. Demand for comic books is sky high. So much so that I’m opening a brand-new store next month.”

  I couldn’t conceal my excitement. “A new Crystal Comics?”

  “It will be our flagship store.” He nodded. “No, our mothership. Seven floors of comic book heaven.”

  “Is that the theme?” I asked, imagining shop assistants dressed as angels and tills in the shape of clouds. “Heaven?”

  Christopher Talbot laughed. “Oh no. But the theme is top secret. You’ll have to wait until the store opens to find out.” His face lit up as if he’d just had a great idea. “You two should come along. Yes, a couple of keen reporters ought to be at the grand opening.” He looked at me. “Not to mention there’s a prize draw for a copy of Action Comics number 232 in Fine condition with a Mylar sleeve, rust-free staples, minimal stress lines, no tears and a smidgeon of a spine roll.”

  I gasped.

  “I’ll have my people arrange a couple of VIP passes.” He swept back a lick of hair. “Just give me your addresses before you leave today.”

  A VIP pass to the grand opening of the new Crystal Comics and a chance to win my very own copy of a golden age comic book? I could hardly believe my luck. I was about to say thank you when Lara flicked a page of her reporter’s notepad and loudly cleared her throat.

  “So, Mr Talbot, with so many customers whizzing through your doors and such valuable comics on display,” she said, tapping her pen against the page, “crime must be a constant worry.”

  “Not with all those crime-fighters between the pages,” he grinned.

  “But you must have excellent security,” she pressed him. “I mean, video cameras and what-not.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t know,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I leave all that stuff to my chief executive.”

  Lara and I exchanged glances. So Christopher Talbot didn’t know about the footage, but his chief executive might.

  “Yes,” he went on. “I’m interested in the strategic business. Looking to the long-term and all that. I leave the day-to-day running of Crystal Comics in the hands of—”

  Just then his pocket buzzed and a ringtone that sounded like the theme tune to the old X-Men cartoon series blared out. I couldn’t believe it. Just as he was about to reveal the identity of—

  “Walter Go,” said Christopher Talbot, fishing out his phone. “I leave all that stuff in the very capable hands of Walter Edmund Go.” He studied the screen. “Ah, speak of the devil!” He swiped a finger across the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Walter, I was just singing your praises.” He smiled at Lara and
me. “But I’ll have to call you back. I’m in the middle of a very important interview. Ciao.” He ended the call and settled back in his chair. “Now, where were we?”

  Lara asked a few more questions and then drew the interview to a close. We still didn’t know who had the Star Lad footage, but we had a very good lead – Walter Edmund Go, chief executive of Crystal Comics, was our new prime suspect. We thanked Christopher Talbot for his time and he showed us out past the wreckage of Tal-bot. Once in the hallway Lara cast a wary eye at the lurking auto-coat-rack.

  “Great to meet you both,” Christopher Talbot said as he opened the front door. “Oh, don’t forget to give me those addresses for the VIP invitations.” He shoved a visitors’ book under our noses. I scribbled my address and passed it to Lara. “Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant fire those right out to you. And please send me a copy of the finished article.”

  We agreed that we would. Lara paused in the doorway. “I was wondering, Mr Talbot,” she said. “The interview was really good, but perhaps it would be even better with another perspiration.”

  Christopher Talbot looked confused, which was understandable. Lara used words the way the Hulk opened a packet of crisps. You were never sure if you were going to end up with a whole crisp or a handful of crumbs that looked a bit like a crisp.

  “Another perspiration?” he asked doubtfully and then a light came on. “Oh, you mean perspective?”

  “Yes,” said Lara firmly, “that’s what I said. So, I was thinking that I should interview your chief executive too. What do you say?”

  Christopher Talbot brushed a hand through his hair. A lump of ceiling plaster fell out and hit the floor with a wet thud. “I say that’s a terrific idea.”

  18

  KRYPTONITE

  I left Lara outside her house and hurried the short distance home. I’d told Mum and Dad that I was going to Serge’s straight after school, and I’d be back for dinner. I didn’t want to arouse their suspicion by showing up late.