by William Hill
“Well, you know, your father, and . . . well, what happened.”
“What did happen, sir?”
Mr. Jacobs looked at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said. “You need to get cleaned up before the next lesson. You can use the staff bathroom.”
When the bell rang for the end of the day, Jamie made his way slowly up the school driveway toward the gate. His instincts were normally sharp, especially where danger was concerned, but somehow Danny Mitchell had crept up behind him during afternoon break. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.
He slowed his pace, drifting in and out of groups of children ambling toward buses and waiting cars, his pale blue eyes darting left and right, looking for an ambush.
His chest tightened when he saw Danny Mitchell off to his left, laughing his ridiculous laugh and waving his arms violently around as he made a point to his adoring gaggle of sycophants.
Jamie slipped between two buses and across the road, waiting for the shouts and running feet that would mean he had been seen, but they didn’t come. Then he was into the neat, identical rows of houses that made up the estate he and his mother lived in, and out of sight of the school.
The Carpenters had moved three times in the two years since Jamie’s dad had died. Immediately after it happened, the police had come to see them and told them that his father had been involved in a plot to sell intelligence to a British terrorist cell, classified intelligence from his job at the Ministry of Defense. The policemen had been kind, and sympathetic, assuring them there was no evidence that either he or his mother had known anything, but it didn’t matter. The letters had started to arrive almost immediately, from patriotic neighbors who didn’t want the family of a traitor living in their quiet Daily Mail–reading neighborhood.
They had sold the house in Kent a few months later. Jamie didn’t care. His memory of that awful night was hazy, but the tree in the garden scared him, and he couldn’t walk across the gravel driveway where his father had died, choosing instead to walk around the edge of the lawn, keeping as much distance between him and the oak as possible and jumping across the gravel onto the doorstep.
The face at the window and the high, terrifying laugh that had drifted through the smashed window of the living room, he didn’t remember at all.
After that they had moved in with his aunt and uncle in a village outside Coventry. A new school for Jamie, a job as a receptionist in a GP’s surgery for his mother. But the rumors and stories followed them, and a brick was thrown through the kitchen window of his aunt’s terraced house the same day Jamie broke the nose of a classmate who had made a joke about his dad.
They moved on the following morning.
From there they caught a train to Leeds and found a house in a suburb that looked like it was made of Legos. When Jamie was expelled from his second school in three months, for persistent truancy, his mother didn’t even shout at him. She just handed in their notice to their landlord and started packing their things.
Finally, they had ended up in this quiet estate on the outskirts of Nottingham. It was gray, cold, and miserable. Jamie, an outdoor creature, a country boy at heart, was forced to roam the concrete underpasses and supermarket parking lots, his hood up and pulled tight around his face, his iPod thumping in his ears, keeping to himself and avoiding the gangs that congregated on the shadowy corners of this suburban wasteland. Jamie always avoided the shadows. He didn’t know why.
Jamie walked quickly through the estate, along quiet roads full of nondescript houses and secondhand cars. He passed a small group of girls, who stared at him with open hostility. One of them said something he couldn’t quite hear, and her friends laughed. He walked on.
He was sixteen years old and miserably, crushingly lonely.
Jamie closed the front door of the small semidetached house he and his mother lived in as quietly as possible, intending to head straight to his room and change out of his muddy clothes. He got halfway up the stairs before his mother called his name.
“What, Mom?” he shouted.
“Can you come in here, please, Jamie?”
Jamie swore under his breath and stomped back down the stairs, across the hall and into the living room. His mother was sitting in the chair under the window, looking at him with such sadness that his throat clenched.
“What’s going on, Mom?” he asked.
“I got a call from one of your teachers today,” she replied. “Mr. Jacobs.”
God, why can’t he mind his own business? “Oh yeah? What’d he want?”
“He said you got in a fight this afternoon.”
“He’s wrong.”
Jamie’s mother sighed. “I’m worried about you,” she said.
“Don’t be. I can look after myself.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Maybe you should start to listen then.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed.
That hurt, didn’t it? Good. Now you can shout at me, and I can go upstairs, and we don’t have to say anything else to each other tonight.
“I miss him, too, Jamie,” his mother said, and Jamie recoiled as if he’d been stung. “I miss him every day.”
Jamie spit his reply around a huge lump in his throat. “Good for you,” he said. “I don’t. Ever.”
His mother looked at him, and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“Believe me, I do. He was a traitor and a criminal, and he ruined both our lives.”
“Our lives aren’t ruined. We’ve still got each other.”
Jamie laughed. “Yeah. Look how well that’s working out for us both.”
The tears spilled from his mother’s eyes, and she lowered her head as they ran down her cheeks and fell gently to the floor. Jamie looked at her, helplessly.
Go to her. Go and hug her and tell her it’s going to be all right.
Jamie wanted to, wanted nothing more than to kneel beside his mother and bridge the gap that had been growing steadily between them since the night his father had died. But he couldn’t. Instead he stood, frozen to the spot, and watched his mother cry.
2
SINS OF THE FATHER
Jamie woke up late the next morning, showered and dressed, and slipped out of the front door without seeing his mother. He walked his usual route through the estate, but when he reached the turn that led to his school, he carried straight on, through the little retail park with its McDonald’s and its DVD rental shop, across the graffiti-covered railway bridge, strewn with broken glass and flattened discs of chewing gum, past the station and the bike racks, down toward the canal. He wasn’t going to school today. Not a chance.
Why the hell did she get so upset? Because I don’t miss Dad? He was a loser. Can’t she see that?
Jamie clenched his fists tightly as he walked down the concrete steps to the towpath. This section of canal was perfectly straight for more than a mile, meaning Jamie could see danger approaching from a safe distance. But although he kept his eyes peeled, the only people he saw were dog walkers and the occasional homeless person, sheltering under the low road bridges that crossed the narrow canal, and he gradually began to let his mind wander.
He could never have articulated to anyone, least of all his mother, the hole his father’s death had left in his life. Jamie loved his mother, loved her so much that he hated himself for the way he treated her, for pushing her away when it was obvious that she needed him, when he knew he was all she had left. But he couldn’t help it; the anger that churned inside him screamed for release, and his mom was the only target he had.
The person it deserved to be aimed at was gone.
His dad, his cowardly loser of a dad, had taken him to London to watch Arsenal, bought him the Swiss Army knife he could no longer bear to carry in his pocket, let him fire his air rifle in the fields behind their old house, helped him build his tree house, and watched cartoons with him on Saturday mornings. Things his mom would nev
er do, and he would never want her to. Things he missed more than he would ever have admitted.
He was furious with his father for leaving him and his mom, for making them leave the old house he had loved and move to this awful place, leaving his friends behind.
Furious for the glee he saw in the faces of bullies at every school where he was forced to start anew, when the whispers began and they realized they had been presented with the perfect victim: a skinny new kid whose father had tried to help terrorists attack his own country.
Furious with his mom, for her refusal to see the truth about her husband, furious with the teachers who tried to understand him and asked him to talk about his dad and his feelings.
Furious.
Jamie emerged from his thoughts and saw the sun high in the sky, struggling to push its pale light through the gray cloud cover. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw that it was nearly midday. Ahead of him, a flattened trail led up the embankment into a small park, surrounded by tall birch trees. The park was always empty; it was one of his favorite places.
He sat down in the middle of the grass, away from the trees and the short shadows they were casting in the early afternoon sun. He hadn’t picked up his packed lunch because he would have had to go into the kitchen and deal with his mother, so he had filled his backpack with a can of Coke and some chocolate and sweets. The Coke was warm, and the chocolate was half melted, but Jamie didn’t care.
He finished eating, tucked his bag under his head, and lay down and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, and he didn’t want to think anymore.
Fifteen minutes. Just a nap. Half an hour at the most.
“Jamie.”
His eyes flew open and he saw black night sky above him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and looked around at the dark park. He trembled in the cold of the evening, and his skin began to crawl as he realized he was sitting at the point where the shadows cast by the trees met one another.
“Jamie.”
He whirled around. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
A giggle rang through the park.
“Jamie.” The voice was lilting, like his name was being sung and allowed to echo through the trees. It was a girl’s voice.
“Where are you? This isn’t funny!”
The giggle again.
Jamie stood up and did a slow turn. He couldn’t see anyone, but beyond the first ring of trees, the park was pitch-black, and the trees themselves were wide and gnarled.
Plenty of room for someone to hide behind.
Something was tapping at the back of his mind, something to do with a girl and a window, but he couldn’t remember.
Something crunched underfoot, behind him.
He spun around, heart pounding.
Nothing.
“Jamie.”
The voice was closer this time, he knew it was.
“Show yourself!” he yelled.
“OK,” said a voice right beside his ear, and he screamed and turned, fists flailing. He felt his right hand connect solidly with something, and adrenaline roared in his veins, then he froze.
On the ground in front of him was a girl, about his own age, holding her nose. A thin stream of blood was running onto her lip, and he saw her tongue flick out and lick it away.
“Oh God,” Jamie said. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?”
“You dick,” the girl sniffled from behind her hand. “What did you do that for?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Why did you creep up on me?”
“I was just trying to scare you,” she said, sulkily.
“Why?”
“For fun. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Something else was rattling around Jamie’s mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Well, you did scare me. So, congratulations, I guess.”
“Thanks,” snorted the girl. She held out her hand. “Help me up?”
“Oh, sorry, of course,” Jamie replied, and reached down and pulled her to her feet. She brushed herself down, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and stood in front of him.
Jamie looked at her. She was very, very pretty, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, pale skin and dark brown eyes. She saw him looking and smiled, and he blushed.
“See anything you like?” she asked.
“Sorry, I wasn’t staring, I was just, er . . .”
“Yes, you were. It’s OK. I’m Larissa.”
“I’m . . .”
Tumblers fell into place in Jamie’s mind and fear overwhelmed him.
“You used my name,” he said, taking a step backward. “How do you know my name?”
“It doesn’t matter, Jamie,” she said, and then her beautiful brown eyes turned a dark, terrible red. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She moved like liquid, covering the distance between them in an instant. She took his face in her hands, with a grip that felt horribly, immovably strong.
“Nothing matters anymore,” she whispered, and he looked into her red eyes and was lost.
3
ATTACK ON SUBURBIA
“I can’t do it.”
The voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred miles away. Jamie struggled to open his eyes. He was lying on the grass, the girl called Larissa sitting next to him. He tried to crawl away but couldn’t move. His limbs ached, and his head was full of cotton wool.
“Damn it, I just can’t,” she said, apparently to herself. “What’s wrong with me?”
He forced his eyes open and looked at her. Her eyes were brown again, and she was looking down at him, a gentle expression on her face.
“Who . . . are . . . you?” he managed. “What did you do to me?”
She lowered her head.
“You were supposed to be mine,” she said. “He said so. But I couldn’t do it.”
“Your . . . what?”
“Mine. In every way.”
With a huge effort Jamie forced himself up to a sitting position.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter.” She looked up at the sky. “You should go,” she said, looking back at him with sadness in her face. “They’ll be there by now.”
A tidal wave of adrenaline crashed into Jamie’s system. “Who? Where?” he demanded.
“My friends. You know where.” Jamie leapt to his feet and looked down at Larissa.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” he asked, his voice trembling. In his mind’s eye he saw a face at a window.
She nodded her head.
Jamie turned and sprinted out of the park, running as though his life depended on it.
Please not my mom. Please don’t let them hurt my mom.
When Jamie reached the end of his road, his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he thought it might explode. His vision was graying, the muscles in his legs screaming, but he pushed through the pain and sprinted the last fifty yards to his house and pulled himself round the gate post and toward the front door.
It was wide open.
He ran into the hallway. “Mom!” he yelled. “Are you here? Mom!”
No answer.
He ran into the living room. Empty. Through into the kitchen. Empty.
No sign of her.
He ran up the stairs and pushed open the door to her bedroom. The window above her bed was open to the dark sky, the curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. Jamie ran across the room and put his head out the window.
“Mom!” he screamed into the inky blackness. His right hand slipped on something on the ledge, and he looked down and pulled it away. Red liquid dripped down his wrist.
He looked at the windowsill. There were two small pools of blood on the white surface and more smeared across the glass of the open window.
Jamie stared in horror at his hand, then something came loose in his head as he realized that his mother was gone, and he put back his head and wailed at the sky.
And miles away, high in the dark clou
ds, something heard his cry and turned back.
Time passed. Jamie had no idea how long.
He couldn’t stay in his mother’s room, couldn’t look at the blood, horribly bright against the white paint and the clear glass. Somehow he made it downstairs to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, when he heard something come through the front door and close it softly behind them.
He was beyond fear now. He was numb. So he just watched as the tall, thin man in the gray suit walked into the room and smiled at him with teeth like razorblades, his dark red eyes shining in the gloom.
“Jamie Carpenter,” the man said. His voice was like treacle. “It is a supreme pleasure to finally meet you.”
The man bared his teeth and took a step toward Jamie, and then the front door exploded into sawdust and an enormous figure, holding what looked like a huge pipe, stepped into the living room doorway.
“Get away from him, Alexandru,” the massive newcomer said, in a voice that shook the entire house.
The man in the gray suit hissed and arched its back. “This is not your concern, monster,” he spit. “There is unfinished business here.”
“It will stay unfinished,” the figure replied, then pulled the trigger hanging below the pipe. There was an enormous bang, like a giant balloon being burst, and something sharp exploded out of the weapon and flew across the room so fast it was a blur, trailing a metal cord behind it. Alexandru leapt into the air, impossibly quickly. The projectile smashed a hole in the wall of the living room, before retracting as rapidly as it had been fired, spiraling back into the end of the pipe.
The creature in the gray suit hung in the air, its eyes blazing with anger. It snarled at the figure in the doorway, then smashed through the big window at the front of the house and accelerated into the sky.
Jamie hadn’t moved.
The giant darted to the window and craned its enormous neck in the direction the thing called Alexandru had disappeared.
“He’s gone,” the figure said. “For now.”
