The Stuff of Nightmares

by Malorie Blackman

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title 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

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Malorie Blackman

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It begins with a ride on a train.

  But where it ends is on a precipice of horror – dangling on the border between life and death.

  It’s a moment when Kyle discovers he’s not the only one in his class who knows about fear.

  Not the only one who has nightmares.

  And now, as Death stalks the carriages, it’s a moment when nightmares become real.

  Nightmares of wars, and a world devastated by chemical weapons. Of a body being slowly stolen, bit by bit. Of monstrous actions and monstrous creatures from old myths. Of jealousy, obsession and a stalker outside your window. Nightmares of everything imaginable.

  What will it take for Kyle to finally face his greatest fear?

  Pacy, compelling and seriously creepy, don’t read this chilling novel late at night!

  Not suitable for younger readers.

  For Neil and Lizzy, with love

  1

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT running. Something … well, if you don’t get it, you won’t get it. Every time my foot smacks the pavement, it’s like an echo of my heartbeat slamming inside me, telling me that ‘I’m here, I’m now, I’m alive’. I don’t jog – jogging is for posers showing off their latest designer gear. No, I run. Tunnels like the one down by the canal and dark places are best. Places where I can’t see my shadow chasing me or tantalizing me by running ahead. In tunnels and dark places there are no shadows, no ghosts. There’s only me.

  This morning was just right, mid spring cool rather than early spring cold, and the air tasted of the new and fresh instead of the usual diesel and dog poo, so I decided to run through the park, which was kind of a mistake, ’cause it wasn’t long before I wasn’t alone as I ran. He crept into my head, where he wasn’t welcome. Sometimes, if … when I inadvertently let my guard down, he does that.

  I picked up the pace until I was sprinting just as hard as I could. But I couldn’t escape. Instead I found myself running into the past, into a memory of him and Mum – into the very thing that scared me the most.

  This morning’s memory was the beginning of it all, for me at least. And it started just over a year ago with, of all things, a jar of strawberry jam. A new one. Unopened. I remember everything about that day. It was a sunny, late winter morning and unseasonably warm. Out of our kitchen window I could see a few pale pink blossoms already decorating the tree in the middle of our garden. (Don’t bother asking me what kind of tree. I haven’t got a clue. I’m not a tree hugger.) Dad and I were sitting at the table eating croissants. Mum was making me a cup of coffee while her croissants sat on the table, getting cold.

  ‘Mum, is there any more jam?’ I asked.

  Without a word, Mum went over to the cupboard and retrieved a jar of reduced-sugar strawberry jam. Hand wrapped round the lid, she tried and tried to untwist it. After at least ten seconds of Dad and me watching her, she gave up.

  ‘Fitz, could you open this for me please?’ she asked.

  Dad took the jar, an indulgent smile playing across his face. ‘Useless or what?’ He shook his head. ‘Londie, what would you do without me?’

  It was nothing Dad hadn’t said before, but I’ll never forget the way Mum looked at him, an intense stare that at first rested on him, then lanced into him, then burned straight through him.

  ‘Fitz, if I didn’t have you, I’d buy a jar opener.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t be able to work that either,’ said Dad.

  He turned to wink at me so he missed the nothing look Mum gave him. I can’t describe it any other way. It was a look full of nothing at all. Just enough nothing to make me frown, but not enough for me to realize what was going to happen. Take it from me, when you have two people living and sharing a life together and one gives the other that nothing look, it means something. It means one hell of a lot.

  I ran that far into the memory before I turned round and ran out of it again. I raced for home, concentrating on the precise placement of each foot. No cracks in the pavement, no slab edges, no litter of any kind to be allowed under my feet. Concentrate, Kyle. Think of nothing. That way you won’t think of something you shouldn’t. I sprinted so fast that my breath was too far behind to catch up with me. I reached my front gate with my heart rocketing inside me. And it felt good! Bent over, my hands on my knees, I looked up at our house as I gulped down oxygen. Not much of a run today. Only about four kilometres. And my time was crap too. Just under half an hour. I could do much better than that. I would have done much better than that if Dad hadn’t crept into my head. Again. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

  I try to run for half an hour each morning, and at least three times that long at weekends. The moment I wake up, I pull on my sweats and my trainers and tiptoe downstairs to head out the door before Mum can catch me. She doesn’t like me running so early in the morning. She doesn’t like me running. But what else should I do? Stay home with her and play happy families? Yeah, right. Running before most people even have their breakfast calms me down for the rest of the day. I still make it home in time for a shower and a quick bowl of cereal in my room, so what’s the big deal? Running fills me with anticipation, like I’m running towards something or for something. Like all I have to do is run just that little bit faster, stretch out my hand just that little bit further to grab whatever is just outside my grasp, and then my life will be transformed. That’s the word: transformed.

  The only time my life makes any kind of sense is when I’m running.

  Only, this morning, it didn’t do its usual trick.

  So now here I am on the train platform with my classmates and I swear, if my legs could take off without me, they would. I’m jittery and twitchy, I can’t keep still. Six kilometres is usually my minimum distance and I really feel it when I don’t do the minimum. I want to crawl out of my skin and run. That’s what I do best. Running. Alone. No Mum in my thoughts – those days are over. And, more importantly, no Dad. Even now, even after all this time, just thinking about my dad makes me feel hollow inside, like an empty gift-wrapped box.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said my mate Steve, nudging me. Hard.

  I rubbed my upper arm to get the blood circulating again. Steve was only slightly shorter than me and wore his hair just about collar length in thin dreads. He had to be the coolest boy in the class, probably because he wasn’t the least bit interested in appearing cool. All I know is he didn’t lack for girls buzzing round him – that was for sure.

  ‘Well?’ Steve prompted.

  ‘I was thinking about my dad,’ I admitted quietly. Steve was the only one in the class who knew what’d really happened to my dad. He was the only one I’d told, after making him swear seven different
oaths not to tell anyone and promising to break his legs if he ever did.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother thinking about him if I were you,’ said Steve. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  I shrugged noncommittally. It was all right for him. Steve’s dad doted on him, hanging on his every word and celebrating his every action. How could Steve possibly imagine the gap I felt inside about my dad? Steve and his dad had what I’d always longed for. I would’ve gladly settled for just half of what they had. The emptiness inside began to feed on me. Time to change the subject.

  ‘What’s that train doing?’

  I leaned forward over the train platform to peer down the line. The train was like an obscene snake, slinking along the track some way back. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. And the windows at the front were like eyes regarding all of us on the platform.

  ‘Kyle, step back before you get your fool head knocked off,’ Miss Wells, our form teacher, called out.

  ‘Miss, let him stick his head out then!’ Naima called out. The girls she was standing with all started laughing. If there was one girl I couldn’t stand in our class, then Naima was it.

  ‘Bite me, Naima!’ I called out.

  ‘You wish, Kyle! You wish!’ Naima winked.

  Once again her crew started laughing. Kendra’s donkey-bray laugh was unmistakable. One of them, Roberta (or Robby, as she liked to be known), just smiled at me, a smile of almost apologetic sympathy rather than amusement. If I wasn’t so sure that Roberta would say no, I’d ask her out ’cause she’s a babe. Not Naima though. Naima’s totally toxic. She’s too busy loving herself to care about anyone or anything else. Her friends only hung around her because they were terrified that if they turned round, Naima would stab them in the back. It was a shame too ’cause Naima was quite pretty on the outside. She had auburn hair cut short and wild and kinda funky, and her big green eyes were framed by some of the longest brown lashes I’d ever seen. She smiled readily, but more often than not it had a sneering edge to it that was all hers. Like I said, on the outside she was a winner. Shame what was inside didn’t match. She should’ve been more like Roberta or another girl in our class, Elena. With them, what you saw was what you got.

  After scowling at Naima, I stepped back as Miss Wells had ordered. At the speed the train was going, it couldn’t have knocked the head off a pint of lager, but I wasn’t in the mood for one of Miss Wells’s lectures. A chill Spring wind had picked up since my earlier run. The wind was travelling in the same direction as the train but moving considerably faster, and it kept ripping at my face, which didn’t help my mood. I was trying to wrap my head around why I wasn’t more excited about our forthcoming trip. After all, for me a trip to the city was about as rare as Action Man poo. Now that we were together again, Mum never, and I mean never, left our small town. She shopped locally or used the Internet to order furniture and the like from the websites of bigger department stores nationwide.

  ‘Miss Wells, can we all move up the platform so we can sit in the first carriage?’ asked Perry.

  Miss Wells looked at the train, which still hadn’t reached us, before turning back to Perry. She shrugged, and I knew what was coming.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Let’s—’

  ‘Miss Wells, we should stay here,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Think, Kyle. Think. Fast.

  ‘Because everyone always heads for the first carriage and it’ll be very crowded and much harder to keep track of all of us if we’re in there as well,’ I said.

  Miss Wells nodded. ‘Good point, Kyle. I think we’ll stay where we are.’

  She moved down the platform to stop Robby and Naima from arguing about who was wearing the best earrings. As if anyone gave a damn.

  Perry scowled at me, sucking in his cheeks in his already narrow face. ‘Thanks a lot. What did you do that for?’

  I shrugged, but didn’t reply. How could I? No doubt it looked like I’d scuppered Perry’s idea just to be bloody-minded. But it wasn’t that. I swear it wasn’t. To be honest, I’m not even sure why I’d said what I did. But the thought of going into the first carriage … I looked away from Perry, who was still glaring at me. If looks could kill he’d have been banged up for life. Perry was the shortest guy in our class but he never let that hold him back. He was my opposite. Over the last year I’d sprouted up so much that everyone in the class, including Miss Wells, was shorter than me. But although Perry was shorter than the rest of us, he was always the first to volunteer, the first to speak, first to voice his opinion – whether it was wanted or not. No way would he ever let anyone in the class forget he was around. I glanced down the track again, jiggling from foot to foot.

  ‘Come on, train,’ I muttered.

  Steve nudged my arm with his bony elbow. Although ‘nudged’ was putting it mildly. ‘Damn near broke my forearm’ was closer to the mark.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked me.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘You seem a bit … restless.’

  ‘No run this morning?’ asked Joe, another of my mates.

  ‘No, I ran. But not for long enough,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, that explains a lot.’ He smiled. ‘I thought you were a bit on edge.’

  Joe was a strange one. Dark hair, darker eyes, darkest disposition of all my friends. He was the thinker of our group. Steve was the doer. Perry was the talker. And me? I wasn’t quite sure what I was, where I fit in. Perry often said that Joe thought too much, which was true. Joe over-analysed everything to death. He was overweight but not massively so, with mid-brown hair framing a round face and lime-green eyes – lime like the fruit, not the drink. His black jacket flapped in the wind like a bird’s wings until he impatiently dug his hands into his pockets to keep the sides down. The train must have been early because it still hadn’t reached us, but at least it was moving. I watched it creep along, emptying my mind of all thoughts as I got lost in its slow motion.

  Why did you do it, Dad?

  I didn’t deserve that. Whatever you felt about me, I didn’t deserve that. Or was it just that you didn’t feel anything for me at all?

  Or maybe you had the right idea and none of this is worth a damn …

  ‘Watch out! Kyle’s lost in one of his daydreams again,’ said Joe to the others.

  I snapped out of my reverie and back to the train platform. ‘What’re you on about?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘You went offline – again.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said with studied calm. ‘I don’t daydream.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he said, turning to watch the train’s progress.

  ‘I do,’ I replied, needing to have the last word.

  As it was, the train didn’t travel much past us. We all bundled into the second carriage. The heat hit me almost at once, blasting out from the vents above my head. The driver must have had the heating on full throttle. I stepped aside to let an elderly couple get off the train and got a dirty look from him and a tut from her for my trouble. Luckily the carriage was almost empty. Only a few heads were visible above the high-backed, blue-patterned seats. Our class were off to the city to see a matinée performance of Romeo and Juliet. We’d been studying the play for the last term and a bit, and this theatre trip was our teacher Miss Wells’s idea of a treat.

  The train doors shut with a hiss and the train started off before we’d all found our seats. Steve sat next to me, Joe and Perry sat directly opposite. Elena and Conor sat across the central aisle from us, opposite each other, holding hands and generally being too wet for words – as usual.

  ‘Conor, what’s the matter, babe?’ asked Elena softly.

  Conor didn’t answer.

  ‘You’re worrying about your nan, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just … she’s getting more and more … forgetful. A few nights ago she made herself a hot chocolate and left one of the cooker rings on all night. Mum and Dad are starting to talk about putting her in a home for her own good.’<
br />
  ‘Well, maybe it would be for the best—’ Elena began.

  ‘No way!’ The words exploded from Conor. ‘Nan would hate it, just hate it.’

  ‘Conor, I only meant …’ Elena gave a quick glance around, only to see me and my mates watching them and earwigging every word.

  ‘How about I write down our conversation so you nosy toe-rags can have a permanent record?’ she bit out.

  ‘No need.’ Perry grinned. ‘Just speak up a bit!’

  Elena and Conor shuffled further away from us and lowered their voices.

  ‘Spoilsports!’ said Perry.

  Elena gave him a two-fingered salute.

  Steve turned away from her. ‘Wasn’t interested in your conversation anyway,’ he muttered.

  It was strange about Steve and Elena. She was the only one in our class that he didn’t have much time for, though I think I was the only one who knew that. I looked around the carriage, taking it all in. Miss Wells was further along – thank goodness. Some of the girls sat in the next set of seats behind us, already twittering away about not much. As if to make up for its previous tardiness, the train moved out of the station, getting faster and faster until the passing scenery was just a frenetic blur. Hot air blew up from the vents underneath the windows as well as from above the doors and the heat was beginning to make me feel a bit queasy, but apart from that, it was great. Outside the train it became almost impossible to focus on anything at eye-level or below. And in a strange way, I found that restful. It required no thought, no interpretation. The sky was the only thing that was constant. The grey clouds drifted along and wouldn’t allow our train to dictate their pace. Below the sky though, the scenery was a smudge of poster-paint colours: mid-green fields merging with the beginnings of darker green crops, merging with brown tree trunks and darker brown branches. Those were the few things I could make out. The rest was pure guesswork.

  Even the tropical heat in the carriage couldn’t spoil my mood. Less than ten minutes into the journey, I had to take off my jacket and roll up my shirt sleeves, as did my friends, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t travel by train often enough to make the trip mundane. I loved the speed and the regular rhythmic hum of the train wheels moving along the tracks. We trundled along, pulling in and out of stations for at least forty minutes. I stared out of the window, watching the sky get greyer and darker while my friends chatted around me.