THE POWER AND THE FURY

by James Erith

  Kemp’s eyes returned to the paper. He looked at the middle option, the one which was double-underlined. It read:

  ‘Alleyway behind kissing houses.’

  Kemp thought about it. It was a good choice. If he was to meet a knife-wielding ghost in a quiet spot which not too many people seemed to know about – but wasn’t too quiet – AND with the advantage that you could get out of both ends – AND close enough to the playing fields for a quick getaway, it was a very good choice. He nodded. Clever old Archie, not just a scruffy little boy.

  Then he clenched his fist. It was also the perfect place for a fight.

  He remembered the look on Williams’ face. He wanted a battle; he could see it in his eyes. Kemp twisted the fabric on Archie’s coat; at least it was nice and strong – and light too. Another layer of protection – just what he’d need if Williams came at him.

  Kemp sucked in his breath. That was it. They would fight – him and Gus Williams, the two of them – and he’d show him who was the strongest.

  Yeah. Finally, Gus Williams was in for a beating like he’d never had before.

  22

  Kemp’s Fight

  From the road above the football field, Kemp could see the crowd that lined the entire perimeter of the pitch. In places they stood four deep from the touchline. How could so many turn out for a silly game of football? But it was a hollow thought for, deep down, Kemp ached to be part of it – to have them cheer him on.

  Anyway, he’d never play alongside that girl. It was a step too far; at least it was for him – there was absolutely no way he could play in the same team as her. That annoying, self-contented, plucky, idiotic Daisy de Lowe.

  It made him feel like puking just thinking about her, even if she was Archie’s sister. That was unfortunate. Archie was kind of cool – laidback and easy. She was a show-off and she got under his skin like a pus-filled boil.

  Anyway, his friends at Chitbury would have the last laugh with Daisy de Lowe in the second half. That was the plan.

  He kicked a loose stone on the ground which skipped across the raised pebbles and smacked a small boy in the knee with a sickening thud. The boy collapsed in agony on the path as Kemp clenched his fist. Nice shot, he thought, wishing it had been de Lowe’s knee.

  Kemp looked down on the illuminated pitch. That’s what they need out there, strength, leadership and character: me.

  He walked further up the slope towards the houses which sat above the playing fields, slowly passing the crowd by until he was on his own high above the pitch. As he walked, he thought about how he could occupy himself over the break with his dreary aunt. Last time, he’d nearly died of boredom, being dragged around endless museums, antiques shops and flea markets. All he ever seemed to do was look at dead things; stuffed animals, bones, and fossils.

  Sure, his aunt was kind and nice and tried hard for him, but she was almost too nice; too wet, too soppy.

  The very thought of her made him cringe. He wondered whether, if his real parents had still been alive, they would have done things which were more fun – things he’d actually like, stuff they could get stuck into together, like sailing or mountaineering or holidaying abroad.

  He smiled as he imagined a camping trip by the side of the river next to a large, warm fire and looking at the stars, his mother singing – her notes filling the air in a sort of magical way in time to the crackle of the burning wood. His father smiling at him proudly.

  It was a fantasy, of course – the idyllic family life he’d never have – and every time he thought of it, it brought a tear to his eye. He couldn’t remember if his mother used to sing to him or not and he had no idea what his parents looked like, but it felt right.

  But how the reality hurt.

  A long booming rumble distracted him. He spied another round pebble and took a mighty swipe with his heavy, black boot, connected sweetly – delighted with the way it flew through the air – skipped a couple of times and then, on the last bounce, it lifted quickly and seemed to whistle past the head of someone lurking by the lamppost near to the alleyway.

  Oh hell! What was an old bloke doing standing over there in the first place? And he didn’t even flinch. Bloody weirdo, probably missed him – must have missed him or he’d have been knocked out cold.

  Kemp put his head down and sauntered on as if nothing had happened. He leaned against a tree. Maybe it was the ghost Archie had told him about. He shook his head and smiled. Nah, more like a lucky escape.

  A few paces on and Kemp noticed a figure just inside the entrance to the alleyway where moments earlier he was sure no one had been there.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Kemp studied the person while pretending to read Archie’s bit of paper. It was the same figure of a hunched old man, shrouded in a long, dark cloak, a thick scarf wrapped round his chin and nose and a kind of loose-fitting trilby hat pulled over his head in such a way that he couldn’t make out a face. The figure was leaning on a stick just like a blind man.

  Maybe this was Archie’s ghost.

  A roar rang out from the football pitch. Kemp turned his attention back to the game. He picked out the chant of ‘Daisy de Lowe, GO, GO, GO’.

  He smacked his fist into his hand. Typical. That idiotic girl must have scored.

  Kemp watched as Chitbury kicked off and mounted another attack but after a couple of passes a shot flew high over the crossbar of goalkeeper Archie.

  He reached into his pocket for his phone but, as he did, his hand touched a waxy piece of paper, like a sweet wrapper. With a frown on his face he tried to work out how it had got there. He smiled. Of course – it was from one of the packs of Haribos he’d stolen from Poppy – one of de Lowe’s girlie friends – at break. He’d stuffed it in his mouth and nonchalantly tossed one of the wrappers into the headmaster’s rose garden, where it stuck rather comically on a thorn and flapped in the breeze. He smiled.

  But how come this one was folded?

  Out of curiosity, he pulled it out, opened it up and stared at it. Strangely, the sweet paper was covered in random scribbles like a pile of spaghetti plonked on a plate.

  Just as he was about to trash it, a few of the lines looked familiar. They’re kind of ... faces.

  Kemp scanned it and turned it sideways and round again. And then three figures came out at him, like a “magic eye” puzzle revealing itself on the wrapper.

  There were three clear faces staring back at him.

  Then it struck him. It was the de Lowes! Absolutely, definitely, them; all smug and cheerful and ghastly. But, as he studied it, their faces seemed to melt away into the paper, like slush dripping through a gutter.

  The next time he blinked, he was staring at nothing. Not a damn thing.

  He turned the sweet paper over. It was blank.

  Kemp felt a surge of excitement run through him. Was he seeing things? Was this some kind of joke?

  He slapped his face and rubbed his eyes. Then he tried hard to remember what Archie had said, and scoured the area for a mysterious old man?

  He looked at the wrapper again. It was changing gradually from white through grey to almost black, like the colour of the vast cloud above them. And then the words “HELP ME” started to appear in the form of tiny molten streaks of lightning on the paper, as if burning the words into it. He crumpled it up and thrust it in his overcoat pocket.

  Kemp’s heart beat so fast that for a moment he felt as if he would vomit.

  Instinctively, he started walking, faster and faster; as if walking might make it go away.

  A few minutes later, he skipped up the series of wide Yorkstone steps to street level and tentatively made his way towards the houses that leaned in as though they were kissing. He peered down the dark alleyway but as far as he could tell it was empty, save for the black wheelie bins guarding it like sentries.

  As he took his first step under the buildings, he noted how the oak-beamed houses on either side all but touched each other as if challenging one another like
fighters. It reminded him of his duel with Williams.

  He spun towards the football pitch below him as he heard a groan from the crowd. He tried to figure out what was happening. Had Chitbury won a penalty? Certainly it looked as if there were bodies lying all over the pitch. He smiled.

  Was that Archie staring up at him? He almost felt like waving.

  Then Kemp turned and headed into the alleyway.

  Halfway down, he slowed. He sensed something creeping up behind him.

  His heartbeat quickened. There was no doubting it, someone was definitely there, someone really quiet. But who? This was strictly out of bounds – how would he explain himself? Was it a teacher? Nah, unlikely. They’d be watching the football match or making last minute plans for the performances later on. In any case they’d have said something.

  Kemp thought quickly and it came to him: Williams. He almost said his name out loud. It must be Williams. It had to be. He was free this afternoon and it was exactly his style to creep up on people.

  Kemp curled his fist into a ball and very precisely said, ‘Williams, if it’s you, I’m warning you. Stop, and walk away, NOW.’

  There was no reply.

  He could feel him coming closer.

  Kemp bent down, pretending to tie his boots. His pulse raced. He readied himself. He sensed the person behind him was now only a couple of paces away.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ Kemp said, and in one movement swung around and threw his biggest punch.

  But it wasn’t Williams, it was the old man. And it was too late to stop.

  His momentum carried him forward, his fist unstoppable. But instead of connecting, the arm careered straight on and propelled him on to the hard grey stone.

  Kemp’s head cracked the paving as he went down. His left leg and arm throbbed.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Archie,’ said a gravelly voice from behind the scarf. ‘We’re on the same team now.’

  Kemp was struggling to get to grips with what had happened. Was it Archie’s ghost?

  ‘Believe me, it is excellent news that you’ve arrived on time.’ The old man moved almost directly above him, his face covered by the scarf and hat. ‘And I sense that you have brought my coat. Very well done; did the Old Man find it?’

  Kemp was horrified and for a moment simply didn’t know what to say. ‘Yes, he gave it to me,’ he lied. His voice stammered as a terrible chill swept through him.

  ‘Are you ready to join with me, Archie de Lowe?’

  Kemp’s skin crawled. Everything Archie had told him was completely true.

  He needed more time. ‘Join you?’ Kemp said, scuffling backwards, trying hard to keep his face hidden. ‘Er, can you remind me again? I was very tired last night.’

  The ghost hesitated. ‘Well, let me put it this way. I’ve got what you want.’

  Kemp shivered. What I want? No wonder Archie was freaked out. ‘What do you mean?’ he stumbled.

  The old man moved to one side and appeared to look up towards the sky. ‘Why me, of course.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me,’ said the ghost. ‘You see I’m the only one here who can help you escape from this place. And you have only about fifteen minutes in your time to decide.’

  Kemp’s brain went a little fuzzy. Fifteen minutes? In your time? Decide what? Kemp stole a look down the alley.

  He needed to get away, fast.

  The old man sensed his unease. ‘You see, in a very short time the skies will open and it will rain for forty days and nights in a way you cannot even begin to imagine—’

  Kemp looked confused. ‘What ... forty days and nights?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I said, forty days and nights—’

  ‘Forty days and nights—?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘What … like Noah’s Ark—?’

  ‘STOP repeating what I say and listen!’ the old man spat. The words seemed to smack Kemp around the face. He lost his footing and slipped.

  ‘If you think what I’m saying is any way over the top,’ the old man said, bearing down on him, ‘I can assure you that in a short while, all of this – everything here, everything – will be destroyed.’

  The old man gestured, almost triumphantly, Kemp thought, towards the playing field.

  ‘Archie,’ the ghost continued, his voice mellow once more, ‘there will be nothing but devastation. There is a shift happening, a shift in time, a shift in the way of the universe and it is happening right here, right now. You are part of this, Archie.

  ‘The wheels are turning and they cannot be reversed.’

  23

  The Game

  Shortly before the whistle blew for half time, Isabella dashed down the touchline and found Sue.

  ‘Sue, thank God I’ve found you,’ she said. ‘What’s up with you? We’re on drinks duty in the catering cart, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re right. My watch …’

  They rushed over to the old Volkswagen Combi ice cream van, known by the children as the “catering cart”, which acted as the half time refreshment centre and mobile sweet shop.

  Isabella and Sue and a couple of others pulled out a few tables and lined out paper cups for jugs of orange squash. As they did so, a steady stream began queuing to buy drinks or chocolate bars or crisps.

  Sue took the money while Isabella handed out cups, but Sue could barely keep up.

  Isabella was working at an astonishing speed, darting here and there, handing out confectionery and drinks and talking to everyone about the score or Daisy’s brilliant goals or the curious weather or who was next. It was an orderly, efficient operation.

  ‘How did you manage to serve all that in ten minutes?’ Sue said, as she squeezed a few more cups into the overflowing bin bag. ‘We must have made a killing.’

  She wiped her brow and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a welcome distraction and with no rain thus far perhaps Solomon was right. Maybe the cloud would break later on that afternoon. And anyway, with everyone chatting and milling around and surging towards the orange juice and chocolate bars, she hadn’t had a moment to think about her predicament, and it was some time after the whistle had sounded for the start of the second half that she focused her attention back to the pitch.

  From inside the van she looked out over the scene. The crowd was still three or four deep the entire way around the pitch and she could just make out the steep rise of the bank on the far side that led up to the village.

  The floodlights shone down onto the pitch, giving the players a strange quadruple shadow. If it hadn’t been nearly midday, there would be no reason to suspect that they weren’t playing a night match.

  ‘Isabella,’ she called out. ‘Get a place left of the halfway line. I’ll join you in a minute. I’m going to cash up.’

  The very first attack after the break, Chitbury scored. Isabella stamped her feet in frustration. ‘Exactly what we didn’t need,’ she said. ‘Come on, Upsall!’

  Sue looked up at the vast black cloud that seemed to be growing thicker and sinking lower as if someone was filling it up with an enormous hose. The feeling of dread she’d experienced before was building inside her; she knew she should get out, run to higher ground, but in her heart, she was swallowed up by the football and the drama, and swept away by the team led by Daisy de Lowe, who blocked and tackled and encouraged her players to keep going with her relentless drive and skill and energy.

  A heavy challenge sent Daisy flying. The crowd swayed and spilled onto the pitch.

  The noise increased.

  ‘That was late. Too damn late,’ Isabella shouted, peeling off her scarf.

  ‘Listen, Bells. Watch it,’ Sue said firmly. ‘You mustn’t go nuts. You’ll get expelled. I promised Solom—’

  ‘It was deliberate and dirty—’

  ‘NO, Isabella!’ Sue snapped. ‘Bite your tongue.’ She grabbed her arm.

  ‘But they’re targeting Daisy exactly as Kemp said they woul
d. They’re going to kick her out of the game!’

  Sue closed her eyes. Great, just what she needed; Isabella going out of control, again. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to go. Isabella was already sizzling like a firework.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Isabella said.

  ‘The gargantuan cloud should give you a clue.’

  ‘Th ... thunder?’ Isabella said, momentarily removing her eyes from the action.

  Sue nodded.

  Some of the crowd started to leave; others were gesturing towards the sky and gathering themselves to go. This is it, she thought. This is where it starts – exactly as I saw in my nightmare. It feels the same too. I’ve got to tell Isabella. I’ve got to tell her NOW.

  A ghastly feeling of panic prickled her. They should stop the game.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as Daisy stole the ball and sprinted down the field. She skipped inside one tackle and then slowed, looking for support. The crowd roared their approval but, from nowhere, a couple of Chitbury boys smashed into her from opposite angles. All three lay on the ground as the ball was kicked away by another Chitbury player.

  Play continued, but it was a poor decision.

  ‘That’s another foul. Yellow card,’ yelled a senior boy. ‘C’mon ref!’

  The atmosphere turned. Late tackles and players being kicked indiscriminately out of sight of the referee.

  Then one of the Chitbury strikers stole into the penalty area as a massive crash of thunder reverberated around them. At that exact moment, little Jimmy Nugent, chasing back, tapped the forward’s foot and the player fell head-first into the turf.

  The whistle shrilled.

  ‘Penalty!’ Isabella spat. ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’

  The ball was placed on the spot.

  ‘This is it,’ Sue said quietly, ‘the end of Daisy’s dream ... Bells, what on earth are you doing?’