Caught in a Moment (The Alex Trueman Chronicles Book 1)

by Martin Dukes

  “You should tell her to get lost,” Will told him pointedly, having instructed her likewise himself.

  “I’ll bring some over tomorrow,” said Kelly with an unapologetic smile. “Promise.” She broke off a big piece of manna. “So how did you get on with old Mrs P?”

  Alex told her, and about his encounter with Morlock, whilst Kelly munched appreciatively.

  “That’s funny,” she said. “Because I saw his sidekick Minion twice today. He’s the little fat chappy. I called him over to see if he wanted to listen to any Yeats but he just gave me that big cheesy grin of his and sidled away. I haven’t seen him for ages until today. If I didn’t know any better I’d say Ganymede was keeping an eye on me.”

  “And why would he do that?” asked Will suspiciously. “Something to do with Paulo would it be?” A little light of realisation suddenly sparked in his eyes. “Hey! I know why you’re always so hungry. I bet you’re sharing your rations with Paulo.”

  Kelly made a disgusted face and cast her eyes upward. “That’s typical of you, Will,” she said. “You’ve got a nasty suspicious little mind. I told you, I haven’t even seen Paulo for days.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Will, pointing at her with his pen. “Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t believe you.”

  “So you think I’m a liar do you?” Kelly was suddenly deadly serious, eyes narrowed, her lips a tight line.

  “Well, I don’t know what else to call it,” he retorted. “If the cap fits..”

  Suddenly Will and Kelly were shouting at each other, face to face, features contorted with anger. Alex and Tanya looked at each other helplessly.

  “I saw Cactus Jack,” said Alex, on an impulse, before blows were exchanged. This had a most satisfactory calming effect.

  “What?” Kelly and Will span round, differences suddenly set aside.

  “Cactus Jack,” said Alex slowly, surprised at the impact of what he had said. “I saw him, the other night.”

  “Where?” asked Kelly, absently twisting a strand of her glossy brown hair.

  “Out on the front,” said Alex. “He was coming along the street.”

  “Big chap, right?” asked Will.

  “Cactus on a white T Shirt?” asked Kelly. Alex nodded. “Exactly when did you see him?” she continued.

  “It was the night before the gathering,” said Alex. “I felt scared. I hid behind the hedge so I didn’t see anything else.”

  Tanya, Kelly and Will all exchanged glances. Alex felt a bit of an outsider.

  “It’s not good, is it?” he ventured.

  “It’s not good news for whoever he’s coming for,” said Will slowly “The game’s up for them, alright.”

  “He could just be passing through the sector,” said Tanya. “It’s happened before and no one got taken. Chad told me.”

  “Everyone was okay at Gathering, the next morning,” said Will. “He must have been… No… Hang on.” He stared suddenly at Kelly. “Paulo wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe Cactus Jack came for Paulo,” suggested Tanya in a small voice.” She clung to Kelly’s side.

  Kelly bit her lip. Alex remembered the movement he had seen on Micklebury Hill when Sylvia DiStefano had been talking about her sculpture.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “They say he sometimes comes a few times before he zeroes in on somebody. It’s like he sniffs them out or something.”

  “What exactly does he do?” asked Alex impatiently. “Does he shoot them or something? You’d expect something more like a big skull faced guy with a scythe. Black robes. You know. That kind of thing.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” said Kelly, regarding Alex seriously, her manna roll forgotten now. “He just kind of tracks them down. He never runs, see…Jack. He just has this patient, steady kind of stride. There was this guy called Mitch. Seems his time here was up. Mitch sees him coming, of course, realises his number’s up and legs it… As you would… Anyway, Jack just keeps on following until the dude’s pretty much dead on his feet. I mean where’s he going to hide? He can’t exactly barricade any doors can he?.. what with them being Statical and all that. In the end Jack catches up with him. Jason Collingwood’s got this place in lower High Street. He was watching from an upstairs window. He saw Jack carrying this dude over his shoulder. Moaning and twitching he was. Jack just pushed open a door and carried him inside. No one ever saw him again. It’s like he’s never been in 'Sticia at all. I can show you the house if you like. Anyway, after a bit Cactus Jack comes out, rubs his hands together and off he goes. Job done. End of story.”

  “End of Stavros,” added Will grimly.

  “Jesus,” breathed Alex. “Why didn’t anyone stop him? They could have helped the poor bloke, couldn’t they?” He glanced from face to face but found no reassurance there.

  “What do you think?” asked Will. “You saw him. How did you feel? Did you feel maybe you could step out and tell him to lay his lousy mitts off anyone?”

  Alex remembered the sheer strength sapping terror that had seized him as Jack passed by.

  “No,” he admitted with a shrug. “I guess not.”

  Alex didn’t sleep well that night. Cactus Jack haunted his dreams. Maybe he Alex had died. Maybe he had suffered a fatal heart attack or something. Perhaps that moment in Wardworths had been his last on earth. More than ever he wanted to go back to Reality, but not like that, not as a corpse. He wanted it to be like stepping into a familiar room; like it had been before. Now that world seemed oddly remote, despite its undeniable frozen existence all around him. It was as though he didn’t belong there anymore. It was as though he was beginning to belong to 'Sticia instead.

  By Alex’s reckoning it was Wednesday the next day, although of course it remained 2.23pm Saturday in Reality. On his way to Mrs Patterson’s Alex stopped by in Wardworths to visit his mum. Once there he held Mum’s stony hand and embraced her for a while, vaguely wondering if the effect he had on his mattress could be duplicated on stiffs if he held onto one long enough. Nothing happened. He had never really believed that it might. Despite this, Alex told her how things were going with him, keeping her up to date with events in his life. Not that it made any difference. His soft spoken words sounded loud in the utter stillness of the shop. It made him feel a little better though. Just a little. Then, on an impulse, he crossed to the pick ‘n mix, casting a hungry eye across the toffees and the chocolate limes. Manna was all very well but it wasn’t the same as real food. It was quite forbidden to interfere with Statica, he told himself. But then Ganymede wasn’t there now, was he? And surely even Ganymede hadn’t counted all the sherbet lemons. Who would ever know? For a while Alex conducted a lively inner debate. He licked his lips. He blew air into his cheeks. He glanced furtively about the shop. There was no-one there; no one 'Stician at any rate. At last, having carefully selected a target, Alex reached out and took a chocolate éclair. A brief tug against the strange magnetic force of Statica and it was free. He hurriedly unwrapped the sweet and popped into his mouth in case Ganymede, Morlock and Minion should suddenly burst into Wardworths like in a police “sting”. It was delicious. Alex felt a thrill of wicked delight, leavened with guilt as the chocolate and toffee mingled in his mouth.

  “Who’s going to know, anyway?” he told himself. “I’ll just have to be careful. Maybe I’ll just have one every couple of days. No one’s going to miss them.”

  He set off for Mrs Patterson’s house with the comfort of that rich taste in his mouth and a new spring in his step. No one else in 'Sticia could do what he had done. He was special. Alex whistled and slapped the back of the occasional stiff in comradely fashion as he headed for his appointment with Ganymede’s pile of sand.

  Chapter Seven

  The next few days brought with them a variety of labours. There was more sand shovelling for Mrs Patterson, of course and then a new interview with Ganymede in which he was allotted fresh tasks. One of them was cutting string for George Plaistow, who had arthritis in his hands;
the other was helping Stacey Lawler learn dates from British history. This last was a particularly disagreeable assignment, not so much in the nature of the task itself, but in the nature of the person he was obliged to assist.

  “I don’t know why I’ve got dates this week,” Stacey told him plaintively. “I got colourin’ in pictures last week, and that was okay.” The tone of her voice suggested she held Alex personally responsible for this.

  Stacey lived with Sarah in a terraced house in Bridle Street. Sarah was usually out with Margaret Owen, putting together a car engine they had been asked to reassemble, so Alex found himself alone with Stacey rather more than he could have wished for.

  “And don’t you go trying any moves,” Stacey had warned him as they went upstairs together to her sleeping room to revise from her history book.

  “Not so long as hell doesn’t freeze over,” Alex told himself as he settled himself opposite her on a pile of blankets. Her lank bottle blonde hair hung over her face as she pored over the book, her pig’s eyes rimmed in clotted mascara.

  “Here,” she said, holding out a sheet of paper in a pudgy hand. There was chipped purple polish on her finger nails. “You’d better test me on these.”

  “Well, you’d better close the book then hadn’t you?” suggested Alex.

  “Alright,” said Stacey, in aggrieved tones. “But I don’t see what it’s to you how I learns ‘em.”

  Nevertheless she closed the book. “Go on then. Pick one from anywhere in the list.”

  “Battle of Trafalgar,” read Alex, looking up in time to see an expression of pain traverse Stacey’s face.

  “I knew you’d have to go and pick that one,” she grumbled.

  Later they went out into the garden, which was fine by Alex, and sat on the lawn. He had suggested that a little fresh air might help her to think. Something had to, if she was going to learn her dates by the next Gathering. She was as thick as two planks. Worse, it was apparently Alex’s fault that she was unable to learn.

  “You’re not givin’ me a chance,” she told him. “That’s what I was goin’ to say.”

  “We just did that one a few minutes ago,” she grumbled when he had to remind her of the date of the Defenestration of Prague for the fifteenth time.

  “Well, you still haven’t learned it,” Alex pointed out.

  “You’re still not givin’ me a chance,” she said bitterly, throwing herself onto her back. “Anyway, wossa ‘defenestration’?”

  “They chucked some dudes out of a window,” Alex told her, thinking he’d like to chuck Stacey out of one. “In Prague. In 1618. Got that? Sixteen eighteen. One six one eight.”

  For additional emphasis he drew the numbers in the air in front of her.

  Stacey groaned, rolled onto her side and lifted herself up on her elbow so that she could study Alex. A large expanse of flaccid white belly sagged between her top and her jeans. Her navel had a stud in it and part of a tattoo showed shyly under her top. Alex didn’t like her looking at him, and he didn’t much care for looking at her either.

  “You’ve got sticky out ears,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, and you’re a fat minger,” thought Alex. “But I’m keeping my personal observations to myself.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” he said, making an elaborate pretence of groping around the sides of his head. “Oh my god! They are quite big aren’t they?”

  There was a silence in which Stacey appeared to study her nails.

  “Do you fancy Kelly, then?” she asked, before Alex could get on with the battle of Naseby.

  “No!” he said, feeling as though he had been ambushed, and with the sensation of blood rushing hotly to every blood vessel in his face.

  Stacey flopped onto her back again and laughed coarsely, which was the only way she had of laughing. “Yes, you do. You should see your face. Not that it’ll do you any good. She’s got a big thing goin’ for Paulo, hasn’t she? Think she’s hot do you?”

  Alex wanted to tell her to shut up and mind her own business but somehow couldn’t bring himself to do so. He found himself drawn reluctantly into a conversation he rather wanted to escape from.

  “What’s it to you?” he demanded peevishly.

  “It’s obviously somethin’ to you, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone all funny on me,” she observed slyly. “No need to throw a wobbly. I only asked if you thought she was, you know, pretty or anythin’.”

  “Yeah… I guess so,” he conceded, in what he hoped was an offhand kind of manner. “Not my type though,” he added.

  “Oh yeah? And what’s your type then? Had a lot of girlfriends have you?”

  “I thought we were supposed to be learning dates,” said Alex, blushing furiously.

  “Yeah, and I bet you’d like one with Kelly. A date that is. Spend a lot of time with her don’t you? Well don’t trust her ‘cos she’s a devious little cow,” said Stacey with feeling. “And anyway I wouldn’t go rating your chances. You break in her half you’ll find she’s got Paulo written right through her like a stick o’ rock.”

  As was becoming his habit, Alex stopped by at Wardworths on his way back to Gladstone Street, a place he was now beginning to regard as his permanent abode. He felt unaccountably depressed. Perhaps it was because he had spent nearly a whole week in ‘Sticia now. Because of this he disregarded his self-imposed rule that he should eat only a single chocolate éclair. Standing gloomily at the pic ‘n mix, Alex picked and mixed and helped himself until he’d had enough. This took a while. When he had finished, his mental state was somewhat improved but his physical condition had taken a definite turn for the worse. He felt sick and a little guilty. He went to apologise to his mum on his way out of the shop, as darkness settled over ‘Sticia and the big black shape of the twenty second manatee passed overhead.

  He spent what passed for the evening with Will, Kelly and Tanya, as had become routine by now. Chad joined them later on, with his friend Charles, a morose child of about twelve years who rarely left his side. Chad Beresford was a lanky eighteen year old with a mop of unkempt black hair and jeans so ill-fitting they could have accommodated someone twice his size. Talk soon turned to Paulo, he who seemed destined to hover for ever on the fringe of Alex’s world. Chad was said to be a friend of Paulo’s and Alex thought he detected a sly exchange of glances between he and Kelly when Paulo’s name was first mentioned. Chad was, of course, the object of Stacey’s affections but had little to say about his admirer that she might have regarded as encouragement.

  “She’s such a loser,” was his considered view, when Alex told the story of his day’s labours. Alex could agree with him on this but he found himself in strong opposition to Chad’s way of snuggling up to Kelly as they spoke, nudging her with his elbow whenever he thought he had something funny to say. This was often enough, given that Chad had himself down as something of a wit. He liked to hold forth on a variety of themes but the subject that really engaged his interest was himself. It seemed that he did lots of gigs as a DJ. It seemed that he had tried out for two Premiership football teams (before injuring his knee). It seemed that he was going to be a racing driver (if he ever got out of here).

  Alex found that he wanted to be elsewhere, a sensation that became increasingly acute as time passed by. He sighed. He looked at his watch, remembering too late that there was absolutely no point and pretending to study his wrist instead.

  “I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,” he said at length.

  No one tried to prevent this so Alex made his way out and along Cardwell Avenue towards the centre of town. On an impulse he turned into the lower High Street where there were several big old houses divided into flats. It was into one of these that the unfortunate Mitch was said to have been dragged by Cactus Jack. ‘Sticia’s moon reflected eerily off the windows of number 112 as Alex stepped forward across the patch of weed pocked gravel that served as its front garden. This had to be the right building. Alex remembered the door described as a big black one and thi
s was the only premises in sight that matched this description. He peered through the dust streaked window at a living room partly stacked with cardboard boxes, as though the occupant had recently moved in and had yet to finish unpacking. A washing basket, overflowing with a variety of unfolded garments, occupied half of a small sofa. Alex had no clear idea what motivated him to explore here, now or indeed later, when he had time to reflect on his actions. Perhaps he was curious to see if Mitch was here at all, or whether he had simply vanished without trace. And then, of course, if Mitch genuinely was dead, his body might be here, a stiff in every sense. It was this thought that made Alex hesitate for a long time as he stood before the front door. It would be easy to simply turn and walk away but some unidentified but powerful impulse kept him there. On the front door was an ancient brass door handle of majestic proportions. Alex regarded this anxiously, flexing his right hand and rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. At last, summoning up the necessary resolve, he tried the handle. The handle resisted, but Alex was used to this by now and something told him the door was not actually locked. He grimaced, using both hands now to heave against the handle. The resistance suddenly abated and the door creaked open. Alex looked over his shoulder at the motionless street. It was as though hidden eyes surveyed him from every dark blank window. The hall ahead of him was empty except for a bicycle, leaning against the staircase. Taking a deep breath, Alex stepped over the threshold.

  Alex ignored the front room, and stepped cautiously past the bicycle into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Mum would strongly have disapproved of Mitch’ housekeeping. A vast pile of correspondence had slithered sideways on the worktop next to the fridge, coming to rest on a plate of partly eaten toast. The sink was full of unwashed pots. Past a window sill full of neglected pot plants a view of an equally neglected garden opened up. Upstairs, the front bedroom had nothing in it, not even a bed. An expanse of dusty carpet showed where one had stood until quite recently. The door to the rear bedroom was closed. Alex felt a sense of gathering dread as he stood before it. “Jessica”, said a colourful ceramic plaque, fixed at his eye level. It was absolutely silent. Alex could hear his own heart thudding in his chest. “Why don’t I just get out of here?” he asked himself, reasonably enough, licking dry lips. “Come on. Let’s just go now.” Failing to take his own advice, Alex closed his eyes and opened them again, clenching his hands into tight balls at his side. Then, swearing under his breath, he swallowed hard to dispel the sudden tightness in his throat and pushed against the door. There was resistance. Alex pushed harder, finally placing the whole of his weight against it and grunting with the strain. The door gave way suddenly and Alex stumbled forward, arms outstretched, fighting for balance. He collided with an ominous dark mass, a dark mass that swung heavily for a moment and then froze once more. Alex rebounded from the object and sprawled on the floor before it. The curtains had been drawn but a slither of moonlight picked out all Alex needed to see. He screamed, a shrill hoot of terror that felt as though it burst from the deepest recess of his being, and flung himself back, shuffling desperately away until his shoulders were pressed against a chest of drawers.