My Brother is a Superhero

by David Solomons

  We had gone to superhero camp together. It’s like scout camp, but with a better theme tune. You stay in tents in a Welsh valley along with fifty other boys, all of whom know that Galactus, Devourer of Worlds, is only afraid of one thing – the Ultimate Nullifier; that since 1970 the Flash would beat Superman in a race; and that Wolverine was originally going to be called the Badger. In other words, like-minded souls. The brochure says the purpose of the camp is to learn from the good example of superheroes. From my experience its purpose is to run about for a week in the woods wearing a mask and cape and eating snack food until you’re sick. When you arrive you’re given a superhero name. I was The Indigo Shadow (we were late owing to a contraflow on the M4 and all the good colours had already been taken), Serge was Doctor Cranium.

  When The Purple Hood nabbed the last hot dog from under Doctor Cranium’s nose at the Friday night barbecue, Serge didn’t take it well. In comics you usually discover that a supervillain turned evil because of some terrible event in his past like the death of a family member or because he was exposed to some ancient cursed object. For Serge his evil trigger was a sausage in a bun. I found him later that evening attempting to divert the River Neath to flood the camp, standing atop a pile of logs swearing to the night sky that he would cleanse the world of the dratted Purple Hood.

  Serge’s villainous streak would serve us well in our quest to track down Nemesis.

  Last night I had explained this to Lara.

  There was one more good reason I wanted Serge along for the ride. I didn’t feel comfortable going on a mission with Lara, just the two of us. I knew that she was highly capable. It was just that…

  …I didn’t want her thinking we were on a date.

  I’d seen boys who’d been on dates with girls. One week they’d be sitting round after class happily discussing whether Batman would beat Iron Man in a fight, or if Aquaman really is useless out of water. The next they’d be putting gunk in their hair, mumbling out of one corner of their mouth and sharing earbuds with girls in order to listen to awful music. One: that can’t be hygienic. And two, when you tried to show them your latest issue of Fantastic Four they’d act all cool and grumpy and then slouch off to the boys’ toilets to smear on more hairgunk. If that’s what dating did to you, then I wanted no part of it.

  I had not explained this to Lara.

  “So, my friends,” said Serge, polishing off the fourth finger of a KitKat, “what is the purpose of our rendezvous this morning?”

  I knew what I was about to tell him would quite possibly overwhelm his brain. The shock might even cause him to have a reaction, like the time in the school canteen when Mark Stanton accidentally ate a kiwi fruit stuffed with peanut butter and his head blew up like a purple balloon. So I had prepared a checklist, which was pinned to my Martian Manhunter clipboard. I asked the first question. “Are you carrying a full dose of your asthma medication?”

  “Yes.” Serge presented the loaded inhaler. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “In a minute,” I said, tapping my pen against the clipboard. “We haven’t done the checklist.” I cleared my throat. “Have you experienced any palpitations lately?”

  “I do not know this word, pal-pee-tay-shuns.”

  Lara tutted impatiently. “He means are you likely to drop dead if you hear something shocking?”

  Serge looked from Lara to me. “What is she talking about? What is this shocking thing?”

  I lowered the clipboard and said in a solemn voice, “Serge, I have something to tell you.”

  He clutched his belly. “Oh no, I am sick, amn’t I? I knew it.” He glanced down. “I told Maman that the itching was grave.”

  Lara palmed her face. “You’re not sick. How would Luke know if you were sick? He’s not a doctor.” She looked at me pleadingly. “For goodness’ sake, just tell him.”

  There were still sixteen questions on the clipboard that we hadn’t covered, but I could see from Lara’s expression that they would remain unanswered. “Serge, you know my big brother, Zack?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Star Lad?”

  “Of course.”

  I took a deep breath. “They are one and the same.”

  22

  DANCE

  Serge gazed at me blankly.

  “No wonder he’s looking at you like that,” said Lara. “I mean, that was an odd way to put it. They are one and the same. Why couldn’t you just have said, ‘Hey, Serge, my brother is Star Lad’?”

  There was a squeak, as if millions of hamsters had cried out in shock and were suddenly silenced. We looked round to find Serge flat on his back on the ground, mumbling in French. Or it might have been Klingon. I get them confused.

  Lara knelt beside him. “Do you need your inhaler?”

  Serge shook his head and continued to babble. His skin went grey and then red and back again, like a chameleon refereeing a squirrel fight.

  “Serge, how many fingers am I holding up?” I asked.

  Lara glanced at me, puzzled. “Uh, you’re holding them behind your back.”

  “Yes?”

  “So how’s he supposed to see?”

  “Fourteen!” yelled Serge, sitting up with a jolt.

  “Correct!” I beamed, helping him to his feet. “He’s fine,” I informed Lara. For some reason she seemed confused.

  “Your brother… your brother,” Serge spluttered. “Your brother, he is…” He gripped my arm, digging his fingers in to the muscle and staring at me wide-eyed, as if someone had just stuck a needle in his bum for medical reasons. “…Star Lad?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded.

  “Granted cosmic superpower…” he began.

  I rolled my eyes. Not this again.

  “In our darkest hour…”

  Despite his best efforts, but to no one’s surprise except Serge’s, his oath had not caught on.

  “Star Lad, star light,

  Protector of the world tonight!”

  Hope and delight and astonishment shone from his eyes. It was quite touching really, but didn’t take away from the sheer underpant-tightening awfulness of the oath.

  Morning break would be over in five minutes, which was just enough time to bring Serge up to speed on everything that had happened. When I’d finished he asked, “Are you certain that Star Lad said ‘volcano’?”

  I frowned. “What else could he have said?”

  Serge pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Vol-au-vent?”

  “What’s vol-au-vent?”

  “It is a small, hollow puff pastry typically with a savoury filling, although sometimes it can be sweet.”

  “No,” I said after a long pause. “I’m pretty sure he said ‘volcano’.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” said Lara. “If there was a volcano in Bromley, we’d know about it.”

  “You wouldn’t if it was hidden,” I suggested.

  “How do you hide a volcano?” she snapped.

  I listed the most obvious ways on my fingers. “Distract-o-Beam, Invisibility Cloak, maybe it goes up and down on a hinge.”

  “A folding volcano?” She sounded unconvinced.

  “Oh yes. Your typical supervillain has access to loads of impressive camouflage tech, isn’t that right, Serge?”

  Serge agreed with a grunt. “You could also suspend it in a cloud of Hypno-gas or disguise it as an innocent block of flats.”

  With that kind of smart thinking it was obvious why I wanted Serge along on the mission, but I could see that he was still reeling from shock. Did he fully understand what he was getting into? I had to be sure. This was no comic. We were going up against a maniac supervillain holed up in an invisible volcano…

  OK, so it was a bit like a comic.

  But this was real life. We might die. And there would be no writer to bring us back again in the next issue with a magical infinity formula. I had to lay it on the line for Serge. “The mission will be extremely dangerous,” I said. “We might not all make it back.”


  “Pah! Danger, it is my middle name,” he said with another of those dismissive waves.

  “It is?” asked Lara. “Is that a French name?”

  “You misapprehend. It is not actually my middle name, it is something you say to show that you are not scared.”

  Lara’s expression hardened. “One thing’s bothering me, and I’m sorry but I have to say it. How do we know that Nemesis hasn’t already…” She looked away awkwardly. “…y’know?”

  No, I didn’t know. “What?”

  “Well, if I was Nemesis – which I’m not – and I had captured my arch foe, Star Lad, I wouldn’t hang about. I’d … well … he’s your brother, I don’t want to say.”

  “I thought you said you had to say.”

  “Yes, but it’s difficult to say.”

  Serge nodded grimly. “I shall say.” Thankfully, he understood what she was driving at. “She means how do we know that Nemesis hasn’t already—” he drew a finger sharply across his neck and made a rasping sound, “disposed of Star Lad.”

  Lara grabbed my arm. “Oh, Luke, I’m sorry, but it’s a possibility we have to face.”

  I wasn’t concerned at all. “Hasn’t happened.”

  She frowned. “But how can you be so sure?”

  “Simple. No public gloating.”

  “Uh, what does that mean?”

  It was perfectly obvious. “Supervillains don’t just kill heroes, not without first boasting to the world that they’re going to do it. They take control of all the TVs and the Internet and broadcast a message from their hideout, smirking about how they’re going to bump off the superhero in question so that they can take over the world, and then they say ‘Nothing can stop me now’. And then they laugh. Hideously.”

  I could see Serge nodding in agreement throughout my explanation. “What my friend says is correct. Star Lad lives.” He flicked his eyes from Lara to me. “At least for now.”

  Break-time ended and we headed to the gym for our next lesson, which was dance. This term we were making our way through the Greek Myths. Today we were dancing the story of the Twelve Labours of Heracles (or Hercules, if you’re Roman). Not all Twelve Labours, because that would have been completely exhausting. The dance this morning was about an incident in his childhood, when Heracles first demonstrated his powers. Heracles was half-man, half-god, and he had a half-brother, Iphicles, who was a mere mortal. In the Greek Myths all regular people are described as “mere mortals”. When they were babies, Heracles showed off his superhuman strength by saving Iphicles from a sneak snake attack. I suppose he was an ancient Greek superhero. I wondered how Iphicles felt about his brother.

  Mrs Tyrannosaur sat at the piano, claw hands poised above the keys, peering at us over her spectacles. “Ready, class? And, one-two-three…”

  She began to play a sad, swoopy tune called “The Lament of the Wine Dark Sea”. Although it was a piece of music about another time and place, it made me feel the loss of Zack deep in my belly. It also made me regret all the terrible things I’d said to him that night. With a pang of guilt I wondered if I’d ever get a chance to apologise. Mrs Tyrannosaur bent over the keys, producing sad-sweet music from the ancient piano. In answer, thirty pairs of feet thumped against the wooden floor of the gym.

  As we waved our arms and shuffled our feet in an effort to tell the story of Heracles, Lara, Serge and I snatched moments to discuss our mission. Our first objective was to track down Nemesis’ hideout. You’d think finding a volcano in the suburbs would be easy, but when we’d put “Bromley” and “volcano” into Google, the search had come back with: Did you mean Bromley Volvo? That was the trouble with secret lairs – they weren’t very well signed.

  “Per’aps there are plans at the council office?” suggested Serge, arms stretched to the ceiling, pretending to be a pillar. “Remember all that fuss when Ikea desired to open a new superstore. Think of the objections a volcano would cause.”

  Lara slithered past as one of the snakes. “I don’t think supervillains apply for planning permission.”

  I was a Greek urn, which is called an amphora. To dance the part of earthenware is harder than you’d think. I closed my eyes and pictured the hot flames of the kiln as I twirled and leapt. You probably think that I would hate dance lessons, but you’d be wrong. Yes, I’m a terrible dancer – I take after my mum and dad – but the funny thing is it doesn’t seem to matter. Something happens to me when I’m whirling around, narrowly avoiding collisions with my classmates. It’s like when I read a really good issue of X-Men and become caught up in the story and everything else in my life fades into the background. When I’m throwing my body about my mind is clear to think. Mrs Tyrannosaur calls it an “immersive activity”. And at that moment I was immersed in the puzzle of finding Zack.

  We did have one lead: our prime suspect in the search for Crystal Comics’ CCTV footage. “We need to find Walter Go,” I said, coming out of a pirouette. “If he has the missing video then I’d bet my comic collection he knows something about Zack’s kidnapping.”

  Serge wheezed and his eyes went wide. “Your whole collection?”

  That might have been a bit rash. “Well, obviously not Grant Morrison’s JLA run, or Stan Lee and Steve Ditko’s The Amazing Spider-Man, or Neil Gaiman’s Sa—”

  “We get it,” said Lara.

  We joined hands and all looked to our left, so that we could dance the frieze, which is the sculpted picture above the columns on a temple.

  Walter Edmund Go. The name scrolled through my mind like a banner trailing behind a light aircraft. Something about it had niggled me since the first time I’d heard Christopher Talbot speak the name. It was both strange and strangely familiar.

  I was concentrating so hard that I didn’t notice the vaulting horse until it was too late. I bounced off its high wooden side and landed awkwardly on the floor. I let out a cry. But I didn’t care about the pain from my throbbing foot, and as I watched it swell up like an inflatable turnip, a smile spread across my face.

  I had solved the mystery of Walter Edmund Go.

  23

  WALTER EDMUND GO

  “There is no Walter Edmund Go,” I declared excitedly.

  “Are you having the sausage in gravy?” asked Serge. Fair to say, that was not the response I had expected.

  The last lesson before lunch had finished and a line of noisy, ravenous schoolchildren filed into the canteen. When dance class had ended we’d gone straight into science, so there had been no opportunity for me to tell the others about my brilliant deduction until this moment.

  Serge couldn’t concentrate with anything less than a full stomach, so I forgave him. We hovered between the Light Bites and the sausage in gravy in question.

  “Of course there’s a Walter Go,” Lara objected, sliding a tuna salad on to her tray.

  “Walter E. Go,” I repeated, emphasising his middle initial.

  There was a crunch as Serge bit into a bread-stick. “I do not comprehend. Why are you saying his name like that? What is the significance of Walter Ego?”

  We took our trays and sat down at our usual table. “Superheroes and villains have one thing in common,” I explained. “Most live behind a secret identity. Clark Kent is Superman. Matt Murdock is Daredevil. Princess Diana of Themyscira is a mouthful and she’s also Wonder Woman. There is another phrase for this: alter ego. And what does that sound like?”

  Lara gasped. “Walter Ego!” I could see her mind working. It worked fast. “You’re saying Walter E. Go is just another name for Christopher Talbot?”

  I pierced the straw through my carton of Not From Concentrate apple juice. “Talbot lied to us,” I said, taking a suck. “That day we went to his house asking questions, we were getting too close to the truth. He had to say something to put us off the scent. So he used his alter ego.”

  “But why does the owner of a comic book store need an alter ego?” puzzled Serge.

  “Because he’s not just an innocent comic book store
owner,” I said.

  “I believe he’s behind Zack’s kidnapping.” I gulped the last of my juice and crushed the carton in my fist for dramatic effect. “I believe that Christopher Talbot is Nemesis.”

  Serge swallowed a forkful of mashed potato.

  “Are you sure?” Lara asked doubtfully. “Let’s look at the facts – a good reporter doesn’t jump to conclusions. When we interviewed him he came across as, well, a bit useless. He was so … bumbling. All that business with the jet pack going through his ceiling – surely an experienced supervillain would never allow that to happen.”

  I had an answer for that. “I think his bumbling was a trick to distract us from the truth.”

  “Pardon,” said Serge, raising a hand as if he was in class, “but what is this bumbling?”

  “It means behaving clumsily,” I said. “Lots of superheroes’ alter egos are bumblers. Clark Kent is the most famous one. When he trips over things and plays with his glasses it distracts people from the truth.”

  “I knew it!” said Lara, spearing a mini tomato with her fork. “I knew he had to be the villain the moment he opened the door.”

  “But you just said we shouldn’t jump to conclusions and that he was a bumbler.”

  She waved away my objection. “Never mind that now,” she said. “I saw right through his little game. I knew Christopher Talbot was a weirdo. All those freaky gadgets and that odd little robot.” She shuddered. “Nobody pulls the whale over my eyes.”

  I wanted to say that he hadn’t pulled the whale – wool – over my eyes too, but if anyone should be wearing the Woolly Balaclava of Shame, it was me. The truth was I’d liked him. All the things that Lara found weird, I admired. Above all, he and I shared the same deep love of comic books.