by Sean Cullen
The arrival today was highly irregular. To save money and time the ODA usually delivered orphans in groups, but today was different. ODA Headquarters in Providence, Rhode Island, had called to say they had a special child for Viggo to take on, and he had lain awake for the last five nights fretting over it. Everything was running so smoothly now. The last thing he needed was to have that boy to worry about. Again, he wished he’d refused to take him, but one didn’t refuse the ODA. Bad things happened to people who did.
Viggo’s worried thoughts were interrupted by a loud booping sound. An amber light began to flash high on the wall. The great door started to slide open, clanking loudly in the vast concrete room.
The wind roared through the opening, plucking at Viggo’s clothing and chilling him instantly. Mrs. Francis clapped a hand on her head to hold her scarf in place.
Outside the door a glistening black helicopter settled on the concrete, the runners touching gently down amid a swirl of snow. It was an amazing piece of flying considering the constant prevailing winds that threatened to drive the aircraft into the side of the building. The helicopter was completely featureless, sleek and black like a giant flying beetle. Presently, doors popped open on either side of the cockpit and two grey figures stepped down to the ground. They wore wide-brimmed fedoras that stayed in place despite the breeze. A grey greatcoat flapped around each spare frame. Their faces were pale and long, their mouths a cruel horizontal slash. Their eyes were invisible behind black goggles that covered most of the upper half of their faces. They were, in short, typical agents of the ODA. One of them turned and pulled a boy out of the door, lowering the child roughly to the ground.
The boy’s hands were cuffed in front of his body, held by a pair of white plastic bracelets that glowed faintly. His head lolled forward like a rag doll and he staggered ahead, falling to his knees in the swirling snow. The agents each clutched an elbow in grey, gloved hands, heaved the boy to his feet, and frog-marched him in through the OPR door. The boy’s head may have lolled like a rag doll, but his steps were quick and sure. He wore a pair of large black boots on his feet that, though they seemed heavy and the boy seemed dazed, never missed a step.
The two agents and their charge came to a halt in front of Viggo. One kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other held a small rucksack in his gloved hand.
Viggo shivered, and not just from the frigid temperature. He found the agents unnerving. The men looked at him silently for an awkward moment. Viggo felt like a bug under a microscope.
“Welcome, Mr. …?” Viggo finally broke the silence, stepping forward and holding out his hand. The ODA agent merely looked at the proffered hand as if he’d never seen such a bizarre gesture before. Viggo nervously dropped it back to his side.
“I am Agent Candy,” the grey man said in a surprisingly lyrical voice. Viggo had met agents before and puzzled over the accent they all shared, but he never managed to nail it down.
“May I introduce my associate, Agent Sweet.” Agent Candy gestured towards the other man dressed all in grey, identical in every way to Mr. Candy but perhaps an inch or two shorter.
Their prisoner stood, swaying slightly with his head down. He seemed barely able to stand upright. Mrs. Francis asked, “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”
Both agents swung their goggled faces to scrutinize Mrs. Francis. She regretted having spoken, wishing they would stop staring at her with those glittering, goggled eyes.
“Not ill,” Mr. Candy chirped.
“Merely under restraint.” Mr. Sweet held out his hand. Mr. Candy reached into a pocket of his great-coat and deposited a small, square piece of plastic into his colleague’s palm. Mr. Sweet tapped the square against each of the boy’s bracelets in turn and they immediately lost their glow, opening with a snap.
Instantly the boy looked up. For a moment his eyes met Mrs. Francis’s, and she almost gasped. They were beautiful, a most extraordinary colour: pale gold rather than brown. And somehow, as they flicked away from her, she saw a strange reflective flash like a cat’s eye when a headlight catches it in the darkness.
“Where am I?” The boy looked around him in confusion. His eyes fixed on Viggo. “Who are you?”
Viggo felt compelled to answer. “I’m Viggo Schmatz.”
The boy grinned, showing all his teeth in a predatory glint that made Viggo’s stomach lurch. “The pleasure’s all yours, Viggo. I’m Hamish X!”
Chapter 3
Viggo looked into those strange golden eyes and felt vaguely uncomfortable. Covering his discomfort with disdain, he curled his lip into a sneer. “Well, what an honour,” he said coldly. “The infamous Hamish X: scourge of orphanages the world over. In the flesh.”
“What a treat for you, sir!” Hamish X smiled, gazing around the room as if taking an inventory. “Cheerful place you’ve got here, Viggo! Pity I won’t be staying long.” Hamish X looked down at his feet, lifting one boot and then the other. He smiled again.
“Impudent pup,” snarled Hammerface, reaching for his baton, but Viggo raised a hand and the guard subsided.
“You will call me Mr. Schmatz,” Viggo said.
Hamish X shrugged. “Whatever.”
Mr. Candy ignored the boy. “He’s a thorn in the side of our organization.”
“A pebble in our shoe, as it were,” added Mr. Sweet. “He’s escaped from every one of our high-security orphan containment facilities—the Orphan Pens in Tasmania, our Undersea Algae farms in the Baltic, the Corn Mines of Central Bolivia …”
“The Gobi Desert Synthetic Ice Cube Factories,” chimed in Mr. Candy.
“Indeed, Mr. Candy, indeed,” Mr. Sweet nodded, head ducking like a pigeon’s. “He has managed to escape them all. Granted, we always manage to track him down again, but it’s an embarrassment …”
“A nuisance.” This from Mr. Candy.
“A distraction.” Mr. Sweet ducked his head again. “We are counting on you to put him in his place and keep him there. I hope our faith in you isn’t misplaced, Mr. Schmatz.”
“Schmatz?” Hamish X said suddenly, “That’s a funny name.”
“X?” Viggo snapped back. “That’s a stupid name. What is it? A family name?”
Hamish X’s brow wrinkled. “At least it’s easy to spell.”
A snort of laughter escaped from Mrs. Francis. Everyone turned to glare at her. She twisted her apron nervously. “He doesn’t look dangerous.”
The agents looked at each other briefly, then Mr. Sweet spoke. “He is dangerous. Very charming …”
“But dangerous,” Mr. Candy interjected. “He must be watched.”
“But we have every confidence …” Mr. Sweet began.
“That you will break him, Master Viggo,” Mr. Candy finished.
“I assure you,” Viggo simpered, “your confidence is not misplaced, gentlemen. I will do everything in my power to ensure that this … delinquent,” he jabbed a finger at Hamish X, “shall rue the day he arrived in my jurisdiction.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Candy.
“Indeed,” echoed Mr. Sweet.
“Now we must be off,” Mr. Candy said. “Do not disappoint us, Mr. Schmatz.”
The conversation was over. Mr. Sweet dropped the square piece of plastic into his pocket. Mr. Candy handed Hammerface the leather knapsack. “The boy’s personal items,” he explained. Without a backward glance, the two agents walked out of the OPR. Viggo felt a surge of relief as they disappeared into the helicopter and the craft lifted off. Hammerface pressed the button to lower the door. With a thud, the wind and swirling snow were cut off.
Viggo turned his attention to Hamish X. “Well, well, well!” He clasped his bony hands behind his back and slowly walked around the boy, looking him up and down with the intention of rattling him. But Hamish X just looked Viggo up and down, which rattled Viggo. Finally Viggo stopped, facing his new detainee directly. “So you’re Hamish X. Not much to look at.”
Hamish X shrugged. “Look who’s talking.”
<
br /> The boy wasn’t all that remarkable at first glance. He stood about four feet tall. It was impossible to tell if he was fat or thin because he wore a bulky flannel jacket. The jacket was woolly red plaid and looked as though it had seen a lot of hard days—the colours were faded and the elbows frayed, the buttons mismatched and the hem dangling loose threads. Hamish’s hat was sheepskin, greasy and soiled. His rucksack was also made of some variety of animal skin. And his bag was so dirty and stained that an accurate identification of the animal of origin would require DNA analysis.
“And these are the famous boots?” Viggo bent slightly at the waist like a hinged stick. He looked at the boots with deep mistrust.
Apart from his unsettling eyes, the most intriguing thing about Hamish X were his boots. The boots were profound: black, heavy, large, and shiny. The soles were studded with rubbery knobs for traction. There were no laces. In fact, they had no fastening whatever, making one wonder how he put them on his feet, and once they were on his feet how they stayed there. The surface of the boots was completely seamless and black as midnight, but traces of iridescent colour shimmered in the light like oil in a puddle. Viggo could almost sense an aura of energy surrounding the boots, a glow just beyond the visual spectrum. He felt his dread of the boy deepen the more he studied his footwear.
Hamish X took the scrutiny without comment. While Viggo examined his boots, the boy turned his gaze on Mrs. Francis. He smiled at her and winked. She winked and smiled back.
Viggo tentatively laid a hand on the toe of the left boot. It was warm to the touch, almost as if it were a living creature.
“Nice, aren’t they?” Hamish X said suddenly, startling Viggo so that he tipped over and fell on his bottom.
“Not really!” Viggo snarled. He jumped to his feet. “Well, well, well! I’ve heard of your exploits—your daring escapes, heroic rescues, blah, blah, and blah. Oh, yes. The famous Hamish X, King of the Orphans!”
“Whatever you say, Chief,” was the simple reply. Hamish X continued to look at Viggo, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk of disdain on his lips. Viggo stood directly in front of the boy and looked down his nose at him.
“Compared to all the other places you’ve been locked up, I’m sure you think the Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory is a dawdle.” Viggo stopped, staring down at Hamish X, who said nothing. “I hate to disappoint you … What am I saying? I absolutely adore disappointing you! You’re never going to escape from here. Do you understand? Never! No one ever has and no one ever will. The guards are vicious, ruthless, and stupid …”
“Hey,” Hammerface objected.
Viggo ignored him. “The fences are electrified. If you try to climb them, a million volts of electricity will fry you.”
“I see.” Hamish X shrugged.
Viggo was a bit disappointed in his new charge’s reaction. “We have dogs, too! Large dogs. Half-starved and blood-mad dogs.”
The boy frowned. “Why don’t you feed the dogs twice as much? Then they wouldn’t be half starved.”
“I want them half starved! It makes them want to eat anyone who’s escaping!”
“I get your point.”
“Good for you! Here’s another point, Hamish X,” Viggo hissed, leaning into Hamish X’s face. “Even if you managed to get past all the security measures and get out of the compound, there’s nowhere to go. The nearest town is hundreds of kilometres away across barren tundra. If you aren’t eaten by bears or wolves,20 the cold will stop your heart and the wind will flay the flesh off your bones. No, my little friend, you will not be escaping from Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory, so put it out of your arrogant little head.”
“You have nothing to worry about then,” Hamish X said mildly, looking around the OPR with frank curiosity.
That mild response took the wind out of Viggo’s sails. “Quite so,” he said. Viggo looked down at the rucksack that Hammerface carried. “What’s in there?”
“Oi! This weighs a ton, Master Viggo!” Hammerface said. He tipped out the contents on the floor: two pairs of underpants, a rather worn toothbrush, a ball of twine, and a large book bound in green leather with gold lettering on the front. Hammerface squinted and tried to sound out the title. “Gree-at Plum-bers …”
Hamish X suddenly lashed out and grabbed the book out of Hammerface’s surprised hands. The boy clutched the book fiercely to his chest. Mrs. Francis could have sworn that the boots pulsed with a faint light when Hamish came in contact with the book, but perhaps her eyes were playing tricks.
“Great Plumbers and Their Exploits. It was a gift from my mother.” He seemed utterly certain of the statement.
“Hoi! Give me that!” Hammerface tried to grab the book back, but Hamish X twisted away. Hammerface reached for his Ticklestick.
“Wait!” Mrs. Francis shouted. Everyone froze. Mrs. Francis, realizing she was the centre of attention, blushed and nervously twisted her apron. She went over and picked up the rucksack. Holding out her hand to the boy, she smiled reassuringly. “Let me hold the book and your rucksack. I’ll take care of them for you. Don’t worry.”
Hamish X looked at her through slitted eyes, calculating. She smiled at him again and reached out her hand again. Finally, the boy held out the book. Mrs. Francis took it and carefully placed it in the rucksack.
“I’ll keep it safe,” Mrs. Francis said and stepped to one side.
“Thank you, Mrs. Francis.”
Viggo’s finger stabbed out at the boots on the boy’s feet. “The boots,” he snapped.
“Yes?” the boy smiled.
“Take them off,” Viggo demanded.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean they won’t come off.”
Viggo snapped his fingers at Hammerface, who came to attention as best he could.
“Take his boots off,” Viggo ordered.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Hamish X warned.
Hammerface leered at the boy and pushed him onto his back. He planted one foot on his chest and grabbed his right boot in both hands, heaving with all his might.
There was a flash and the smell of burning hair. The air crackled with static electricity. Hammerface cartwheeled across the floor, landing on his back, steaming softly. Hamish X hopped to his feet and shrugged. “I warned you. They don’t come off.”
Hammerface struggled to his feet. His hair stood out at all angles. “They don’t come off,” he mumbled stupidly.
Viggo crossed his arms and glared at the boy. He’s a born troublemaker, he thought to himself. But I have to keep the ODA happy if I want the cheap labour to keep coming. Orphans don’t grow on trees.21 I’ll just have to keep a close eye on him. To Hammerface he said, “Take him to the dormitory. He’ll join the day shift.”
Mrs. Francis stood to one side, completely unnoticed by Viggo, the rucksack behind her back. Her heart went out to this little boy. He seemed so strangely self-assured, but she could sense a loneliness in him that was common to all the children in Windcity: they were alone in the world without family to love them. She did her best to give them a little bit of that love they desperately needed, but there were so many of them and she could spare them so little time.
Hammerface laid a heavy hand on Hamish X’s shoulder and marched him through the metal door that led to the dormitory. He looked so small. Mrs. Francis bit her lip and wrung her hands, a look of concern in her eyes. Suddenly, she realized Viggo was staring at her.
“Mrs. Francis. Don’t you have somewhere to go?” the cheese master demanded.
“Oh. Dinner!” Flustered, Mrs. Francis turned her back on Viggo and hurried up the hall towards the kitchen, where the oatmeal porridge simmered in a vast steel cauldron.
Viggo stood for a moment in the OPR trying to identify a new feeling he was experiencing. When he’d looked into the face of the new boy he’d felt a shiver run up his spine. Finally he concluded that he was probably coming down with a cold. He couldn’t possibly be feeling
afraid of a boy who couldn’t be more than ten years old. He barked a quick, uneasy laugh and stalked off to his personal quarters to get ready for dinner.
Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet
High above the grey chop of Hudson’s Bay, Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet sped eastward through the night.
“Well Mr. Sweet, I wonder how long the subject will take to escape this time.”
“Indeed, Mr. Candy. It should be very interesting to watch.”
“Fascinating in fact, Mr. Sweet. We are so close. Shall we return to Providence HQ to monitor his progress?”
“Let’s.”
Chapter 4
Mrs. Francis hurried into the kitchen, her pudgy torso wrapped in a dingy brown apron stained with the memories of porridges past. She picked up the canoe paddle she used as a spurdle22 and began to churn the oatmeal, trying to break up the slimiest of the lumps. Mrs. Francis knew the children hated the taste of the porridge passionately, so she did her best to keep it as smooth as possible. At least, she reasoned, the vile food would be easier to swallow.23
Feeding one hundred children is a big job, even if the only food you have to prepare is oatmeal. The cauldron Mrs. Francis used was more like a large bathtub than a cooking pot. A gas element burned underneath it, setting the greyish, lumpy mixture to a seething boil.
The cauldron doubled as a serving tureen. Mrs. Francis had only to swing open a pair of metal shutters on the wall above the cauldron to ladle the oatmeal into the bowls of the children who were lining up impatiently. She dipped and doled, dipped and doled the hot goop, all the while keeping an eye out for the new boy.
OUT ON THE FACTORY FLOOR, Mimi leaned her pick against the wall with all the other tools. She joined the mob of children shuffling to the change room. Parveen fell in beside her.
“Ya oughtta keep yer ideas to yerself, Parveen,” she said. “Viggo isn’t interested in makin’ things easier fer us.”
Parveen shrugged. “There is no logic to Mr. Viggo’s attitude,” he said in his softly lilting English. “Certainly, it is in his own interest to increase the levels of production.”
