Stormwalker
Page 1
ALSO BY MIKE REVELL
Stonebird
© 2016 by Mike Revell
Cover artwork © Frances Castle 2016
Cover design by Nicola Theobald
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.
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e-ISBN 978-1-68144-492-5
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2016032771
Distributed in the United States and Canada by
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10104
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
For my parents, who have always believed in the magic of stories
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Meet Mike Revell!
Guide
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
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1
I blame it on the nosebleed.
If I hadn’t gone to the nurse’s office I never would have seen the leaflets, and Dad would never have gone to counseling, and my life wouldn’t have taken a turn for the crazy. Trust me, if I had the choice between living like a normal twelve-year-old and jumping into a dead world, I’d grab normal every time.
But I had to take the header. It was the National School Football Championships—if we lost the game, we’d be knocked out, and I’d never get trials for Cambridge. And that meant sprinting back to the box with the rest of the lads and trying to clear Shepworth’s corner.
“Get it out!” Mr. Matthews yelled. “Whatever you do, just get it out!”
I glanced at Danny, nodding in the direction of their goal. If we managed to clear it, I’d thread it through to him and we’d be able to break.
Danny grinned. He knew exactly what I was thinking.
The ref blew the whistle and the ball looped in. It curved in slow motion, and as I leapt up I saw water droplets spraying off it in every direction. I wasn’t a great defender but could head it pretty well, and all I had to do was clear it, just like Mr. Matthews said.
But as I jumped, something caught my eye, and I turned—
CRUNCH.
The ball smashed into my nose and I stumbled over, shielding myself from the rush of cleats.
“Clear it!” someone barked.
“Boot it away!”
When I took my hands from my face, they were covered in blood.
The whistle blew and at first I thought they’d scored. I looked up, but everyone had stopped and the ref was jogging over to me, waving at our sideline.
“Are you all right?” he said. “Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?”
I swiped at sweat and tears and tried to focus. “Three,” I said.
Mr. Matthews knelt beside me and soaked the magic sponge in water, sloshing it all over my face as he dabbed at my nose. It wasn’t really a magic sponge, it was just called that because if you got smacked in the shin it really did take away the pain.
“What were you thinking?” he said.
“I was trying to get rid of it. I was trying to smash it out of the box.”
“I know you were, son. Now put your head back.”
He pinched my nose and held the sponge under it, but I could feel the blood still gushing out. Sweat stung my eyes now and I scrunched them tight shut. The referee moved closer and muttered something in Mr. Matthews’s ear.
“We’re going to have to move you,” he said. “Reckon you can stand up?”
I pushed myself off the ground, but as I did I caught sight of the sponge. Normally I’m all right with gory stuff. Last week in Science we cut open an eyeball and Sarah Bromley and Zach Goodman had to leave the room because it made them feel sick. That didn’t bother me at all.
But the sponge . . .
It was red—deep red—and dripping. I tasted warm blood on my lips and before I could take a step, everything went gray and fizzy, like when you load up a bad channel on TV. The last thing I heard was my name, over and over again.
“Owen. Owen?”
I slumped to the ground.
“Owen!”
That voice. I recognized that voice. I blinked and tried to sit up, but my head pounded. “What happened?” I asked, squinting up at Danny.
“You just proved why you don’t play defense,” he said.
My hand shot to my nose and I winced as I felt for damage, but when I looked at my fingers, there was no blood. The door creaked open, and the school nurse shuffled into the room. “Lucky it’s not broken,” she said. “Idiot boys and your idiot games. Why you’d want to go chasing a ball around a field is beyond me.”
But her lips twitched, and I knew she wasn’t being mean.
The clock on the wall said 5:01. I must have only been out for a few seconds, but what a time to black out—I’d missed the end of the game! An ice-cold feeling rippled through my stomach as I thought back to the end of the match. I hardly dared ask the question . . . but in the end I didn’t need to. Danny saw my face and answered for me.
“We won,” he said. “Just.”
Yes! We had made it through! Two more wins and we’d be in the quarter final.
If we got that far, there would be scouts for sure. Academy scouts at our game . . .
“What happened?” Danny said, snapping me out of the dream. “At the end of the match? I’ve never seen you miss a ball like that before.”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said. Which was a lie.
Because I did know. I took my eye off the ball at the last second, not because I was nervous, but because I saw her. I saw Mum. Except I didn’t. I couldn’t have.
Three hundred and fifty-five days. That was how long it’d been since they buried her. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the cold rain on my skin. Dad holding me under the too-small umbrella while the vicar went on and on about how amazing she was. Saying Cambridge had lost a cherished member of the community.
But the people in town didn’t know her. Not really. They hadn’t played Monopoly with her or watched her fail at Just Dance or seen her make smiley faces with the mushy peas when we got fish and chips. All they saw were her paintings.
“Are you all right, mate?” Danny said.
I shook the thoughts away. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Which was another lie.
One more sleep. That was all it was. Tomorrow, it would be a year since the Longest Day. How could I be fine when the anniversary was coming up?
I grabbed some leaflets off a table and pretended to flick through them, but really I was just trying to clear my head.
“You can go home,” the nurse said. “Just don’t go smacking yourself in the face for a while.”
I looked at Danny. He beamed, bouncing up and down on his toes, then skipped out of the office. I gathered my things, which had been dumped in the corner of the room, and followed him out of school.
The buses were all gone now, so we walked home, kicking a football all the way. I smiled and laughed along with Danny’s jokes, but I couldn’t stop my mind drifting. I know it wasn’t Mum at the game. There was no one there. It was all in my imagination. But she had seemed so real.
And if I was cracking up like this, how much worse was it for Dad?
2
When I got in I went straight up to my room, chucked my stuff on the floor, and changed out of my football gear. It was only then that I noticed the leaflets, falling out of my bag. I must have stuffed them in there without thinking back in the nurse’s office.
One had a photo of a chalky-f
aced kid on the front. His eyes had dark circles underneath them and he looked as if he was about to throw up. The heading across the top read JUST SAY NO in big red letters.
I scrunched it up, and was just about to get rid of the others too when something made me stop. The photo on the front of the second one . . .
It wasn’t anything to do with drugs. There were gravestones, and people hugging or standing with their heads bowed low. The title said WE ARE ALWAYS HERE TO HELP.
I scanned the text inside, looking for something in it that might help Dad. It had a load of words on it like “Depression and Anxiety” and “Anger and Loss,” but it didn’t go into any detail. Further down, it listed the different types of counseling available—things like “Artistic Healing” and “Musical Medicine.” Then it just had a load of pictures, and a quote from a girl who ran away from home and found help through counseling.
But I didn’t want to run away from home. I just wanted Dad to be okay.
Ever since the Longest Day, he’d been getting quieter. He never came to watch me play anymore, and he stopped asking to kick the ball around with me months ago. It could be annoying but I couldn’t get mad, because even though the Longest Day had been awful for me, it must have been worse for him. I’d only known Mum for eleven years, and some of that I was a baby, so for those years I didn’t really know her at all. But Dad was married to her for fifteen. He had lived with her every day, and now she’d gone.
I looked again at that term—“Artistic Healing.” Dad was an author, but he hadn’t written anything in over a year. Back when he did write, he used to sit in his study for hours and when he emerged, there was a spring in his step. Maybe these people could get him writing again?
Right at the bottom of the leaflet, there was a number to ring. I hesitated, wondering whether I should call, wondering what would happen if I did. Maybe I could just leave the leaflet on his bedside cabinet? No, he’d know right away it was me. I could call the counselors myself . . . get them to talk to Dad, without him knowing it was me.
I stared at the leaflet, memories of Mum’s funeral racing through my head, until something jolted me out of my thoughts.
The fire alarm.
Still holding the leaflet in my hand, I rushed downstairs. Smoke filled the hall in a gray haze. It wasn’t thick, but it smelled rank, and I covered my nose with my T-shirt as I stumbled into the kitchen.
“Dad!” I blurted, smoke stinging my eyes.
“It’s all right!” he said, flapping a tea towel uselessly at the fire alarm on the ceiling. “I’ve got everything under control.”
I glanced round, trying not to breathe in. There was a pan on the stove with what looked like thick black treacle glued to it.
“What’s that?” I moved closer.
“It was going to be dinner,” Dad said. “But since this is what happens when you try to crack into it, it’s not anymore.” He held something up, but my eyes were watering so much I had to rub them dry before I could make out what it was.
What it used to be, anyway. Now the spoon looked more like the metal pegs used to pin tents down with. It was curved in three places, bent completely out of shape.