Alexander's Army

by Chris D'Lacey

  “No,” I cut in. Time to punch another hole in their logic. “Even if Freya agrees, a sleepover doesn’t make sense. Josie and Freya would never be friends. Freya’s three years older than Josie.”

  Chantelle shrugged. “She can be made to look younger. And Michael’s sister is tall. They are physically well matched. It will work, Klimt.”

  “I agree. Set it up,” he said.

  “No!” I protested, desperate now. “I’m not letting an undead person sleep in my sister’s room! It’s not …”

  “Not what?” said Klimt. “What exactly is it ‘not,’ Michael? Ethical? Real? Remember where you are and what you are. Look again at the tattoo we placed on your ankle. You are a UNICORNE agent, involved in a mission to tame the supernatural. These men at the comic store are searching for Freya and have identified you as a conduit to her. They have come for you once and they will come again. We must be ready. Chantelle, go to the laboratory with Preeve and do what you need to disguise the girl. Preeve, you have less than forty-eight hours to make Freya stable. Give her medication to carry if necessary.”

  “You’re the ones who need medication,” he muttered.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Mulrooney.

  Klimt checked his watch. “Put Michael in the car. He’s going home.”

  It was lunchtime when Mulrooney dropped me off at the end of our drive. Mom was waiting anxiously on the steps, already primed, I guessed, by Klimt.

  “Oh, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” she gushed. She gripped me in a hug that would have pulped a puppy.

  “Good,” I said, managing to squeeze a minimal shrug out of my heavily clamped shoulders. Even at times like this, it was important for a boy to maintain his teenage credibility.

  She stood me at arm’s length, examining my face. “Dr. K sounded hugely relieved on the phone.”

  He was?

  “Thank goodness he double-checked the lab results. I’m so glad it was a false alarm. An inflammation of the brain could have been very damaging.” She kissed her fingers and tapped my forehead. “You might have forgotten how much I love you.”

  No. Not possible.

  “Mom, it’s raining. Can I come in now?”

  “Hhh!” She gasped and covered her mouth. “I forgot to tell you. I rented your room to a traveling magician.”

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes and stood aside to let me in. “Maybe we should triple-check those lab results?”

  I went to school that same afternoon. Mom couldn’t believe it. To some extent, neither could I. She’d offered me something that was every kid’s dream — the run of the house while she was at work. But I didn’t want to be on my own right then — just in case Alexander came knocking.

  At school, I received little sympathy. Somehow, word had got around that I’d had a brain scan. As I walked into my history class, there were several jibes about my intellect. Ryan, naturally, had to have a pop. “You mean they actually found a brain?”

  I threw my bag onto my desk. “Good thing it wasn’t you. Don’t think they’re set up for measuring tumbleweed.”

  Big laughs.

  Ryan tried again. “Yeah, well, everyone knows you’ve got a brain the size of …”

  We waited in awe as his tumbleweed sorted out what kind of object, smaller than a brain, might reasonably fit within the human skull.

  “A tennis ball,” he spluttered.

  “Well, that’s considerably larger than your peanut,” said a voice. Mr. Furzeham, our history teacher, swept in.

  Brilliant. Even bigger laughs.

  “Take your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen. It’s story time. We have an hour of gruesome warfare to get through.”

  I liked history. And Mr. Furzeham. He was the weirdest teacher on the block, small and skeletal, bug-eyed, with holes in one ear for at least three studs. Rumor had it that he played in a heavy metal band and lived in a trailer, eating nothing but soup. He scared kids just by the way he moved. For a man who was not much wider than a broom, he had an enormous stride. Lauren Shenton called him “the puppeteer” because of the way he shaped his hands when he was describing moments from history. He was also the teacher with the wittiest put-downs, as Ryan all too often discovered.

  As we found our desks, Ryan whispered, “Anyway, you’re way behind.”

  I thought he meant with lessons, but he opened his bag and flashed me a small stack of cards. They were facedown, so I couldn’t see what they were, but it was clear I’d missed some kind of new craze. I wasn’t big on collecting or swapping stuff, but I liked to join in when something was happening. If anyone other than Ryan had said it, I might have been jealous. So? I mouthed.

  These are MEGA, he mouthed right back. He was about to show me when Mr. Furzeham boomed, “If that’s what I think it is, Garvey, they had better go away.”

  Ryan snatched his bag shut. “Just getting a pen, Mr. Furzeham.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Make sure you write with the pointy end, won’t you?”

  “Yessir,” Ryan grunted — and actually put the wrong end to his notebook, which caused an explosion of laughter from the neighboring desks.

  Mr. Furzeham picked up a remote and aimed it at the ceiling projector. The whiteboard flickered into life. Up came one of those old-fashioned photographs of a handsome man in a military jacket, sporting the biggest mustache I’d ever seen. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand,” Mr. Furzeham said. “Crown prince of Hungary, prize-winning racehorse, or goalkeeper with Manchester United? Woe betide anyone who chooses options two or three. Yes, Lauren?”

  “Crown prince of Hungary, sir.”

  “How ever did you guess? Well done.”

  And off he went on one of his incredible storytelling lessons. During the course of the next forty minutes, we learned that a terrible war had started in Europe after Archduke Ferdinand was shot. Mr. Furzeham showed maps of the countries involved, and pictures of trenches and muddy fields and tanks that looked like old bathtubs. It was horrific. But the images that got to me most were the soldiers. One was of a troop of British men, all wearing the kind of helmet I’d seen on the drawing in AJ’s comic. My mouth was already like a dried-out bug when Mr. Furzeham said, “I’m sure one of you would love to tell me what popular name was given to these troops.”

  Ryan’s hand shot up.

  I was expecting him to say something dumb, as usual. Instead, he spoke a word that almost turned my bones to dust. “Tommies, sir.”

  “Well done,” said Mr. Furzeham.

  Ryan licked his finger and marked my air space. And as Mr. Furzeham bent down to adjust his laptop, Ryan grabbed the opportunity to really show off. He dipped into his bag and pulled out a card.

  A plain white card with a thin black line around its border.

  In the middle of the card was a simple image.

  A faceless soldier.

  I collared Ryan the moment the bell rang. “Show me those cards.”

  He flipped his bag onto his shoulder. “Nah, get your own.”

  Not good enough, Ryan. I waited for the last kid to leave, then hauled him up against the classroom wall. “Show me.”

  “Hey! What’s your problem?!” He looked toward the door — not to summon help but more to make sure he wouldn’t be embarrassed if anyone saw us. He started kicking. “Let me go, you jerk!” Down the corridor, I heard Mr. Dartmoor’s voice and let go of Ryan just as Dartmoor sailed past the door. He backed up and looked inside. Teachers: They could sniff out trouble like a pig could find truffles.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing, sir,” we muttered feebly.

  And Ryan added, “We were just … swapping cards.”

  “Cards? Again?” Mr. Dartmoor tutted. “Is it me or is the whole school in the grip of this swapping nonsense?” He rested his fists on his hips. He was dressed in a tight white T-shirt and gray tracksuit bottoms. Most people would have said he was a handsome man, but Mom would have called him obscenely muscular, righ
t down to the hairs on his arms. He eyeballed us from head to toe. “You pair look about as healthy as two fish out of water. Why don’t you get outside and do some exercise instead of wasting your time on ridiculous cards? Malone, do I need to speak to you about something?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s just …” He twisted his nose as he sought out a memory. Please, I was thinking, don’t remember the mall, when he bellowed down the corridor, “HIGGINBOTTOM! IF I SEE YOU SPITTING OUT OF A WINDOW AGAIN, I’LL MAKE SURE THE REST OF YOUR BODY FOLLOWS SUIT, YOU DISGUSTING EXCUSE FOR A BOY!” He looked back at me and Ryan. “What was I saying?”

  “That we should go outside, sir.” Ryan made a move.

  Mr. Dartmoor stood aside and wafted us away. “Well, get along, then. I’ve got a match to start. I can’t stand around refereeing your silly twaddle.”

  Whatever.

  We trudged down the corridor shoulder to shoulder, with Mr. Dartmoor a pace or two behind us, bellowing at more unfortunate boys. After what seemed like a small eternity, he exited a door that led to the gym. I immediately turned on Ryan again and bundled him into the shadows beneath the main stairwell.

  “What are you doing?” He flung out an arm. This time he was ready to fight.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” I raised my hands to stop him from running (or hitting). “I’m just … fed up with missing out on everything. First my accident. Now this stupid brain thing.”

  “You said it,” he sniffed. He straightened his jacket.

  “Will you show me the cards?”

  A long bell rang.

  “We’ve got English,” he said.

  “Later, then? Before we go home?”

  He sighed and stubbed his toe against the wall. “Just go to the book fair like everyone else.”

  “Book fair?”

  “In the library?” he said, drooping his lip. “You know, that place where you practically live?” He sighed and brushed past me, knocking my shoulder.

  We clumped up the stairs toward the English department.

  “Someone came to the book fair, with the cards?”

  He yanked a door open, almost splatting a little kid against the wall. “Sort of. They were in the comics.”

  My veins iced. “Comics?” I held the door open for a teacher to pass.

  Ryan turned and walked backward down the corridor. “Someone told you I’d got the best set, didn’t they?”

  “No. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, and dipped into the classroom.

  Almost immediately, Freddie Hancock was on him. “Hey, Ryan, I got a new Dobbs. I only need two more. Swap you Hodges five for that Dobbs nine you showed me?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Aw, come on,” Freddie begged.

  “Show me,” I said to Freddie.

  Unlike Ryan, he couldn’t wait to produce his collection. “There are ten of each Tommy,” he said, shuffling them into uneven groups.

  “Tommy?”

  “That’s what the guy called them — Tommy cards.”

  He’d been here? At school? AJ had come to the book fair, with comics?

  “What did he look like?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy.”

  Freddie shrugged. “Some floppy-haired dude in a bow tie. Can’t remember. Do you want to see or not?”

  He fanned a few out. On the back, they all had the faceless image. But on the other side were names: Dobbs, Clegg, Grimper, Hodges, with details of their rank and military history. And in the bottom right corner was a small drawing.

  “The Dobbs are my best,” said Freddie. “I’ve got eight of them now.” He sat on a desk to get closer to me. “Look, when you flick through them in order …”

  The drawings moved. Dobbs jumped to attention and sloped a rifle against his shoulder. A faceless tin-hatted man with a rifle.

  Not to be outdone, Ryan reached into his bag. “Yeah, but they’re not as good as these.” He flipped through a complete set of Clegg, who knelt and put a radio receiver to his ear. Grimper was even better. He drew the pin from a hand grenade and lobbed it. Hodges appeared to be some kind of medic.

  “And you got these out of comics?”

  “Yeah,” said Freddie as Mr. Hambleton walked in, calling for quiet. “Gonna get some more tonight, aren’t we, Ryan?”

  “Where from?” I said, thinking they were going to The Fourth Enchantment.

  Ryan grimaced as if my brain really had gone soft. “Um, book fair …?” he reminded me.

  Of course, the fairs lasted for days.

  “Hey, Ryan, you didn’t send me a Tommy card, did you?”

  “What?”

  “Did you push an envelope through my door the day I went into the hospital?” I’d only just remembered it. I felt my inside pocket. Drat. Wrong jacket. Of course. I hadn’t gone to UNICORNE in my school uniform.

  Ryan screwed up his face. “You’re nuts,” he said. He flicked through his set of Grimper again.

  The faceless soldier lobbed his grenade.

  Bang. You’re dead, he seemed to be saying.

  In the library. After school.

  Showtime.

  Now I had a problem. A serious problem. I’d forgotten to bring my phone into school. There was no way I could warn Chantelle or Mulrooney that AJ might be in the library tonight. And even if I borrowed someone else’s cell, I couldn’t remember the UNICORNE numbers. That left me two options: chicken out or face AJ in the library with only Freddie and Ryan for backup.

  I chose to go. Half the kids in my class had the same idea; I figured I’d be safe in a crowd.

  As soon as classes were done, we descended on the book fair like a posse of cowboys, only to meet another group of boys at the bottom of the library stairs.

  It was immediately clear that something was wrong. Long-faced boys were drifting past us, ebbing away like melting ice.

  “What’s happening?” said Freddie. “Where are you going?”

  Iain Grant, one of the few kids not carrying a stack of Tommy cards, said, “It’s closed.”

  “Oh, what?” moaned Ryan, dropping his shoulders.

  “There’s a sign,” said Iain. “Mrs. Rowley’s ill.” Mrs. Rowley was the school librarian, one of my favorite members of the staff.

  “So?” said Ryan with a selfish grunt.

  “So the book fair’s canceled, dimwit.”

  “But are the comics in there? Is the guy around?”

  “How should I know?” said Iain.

  Ryan sighed. “I’m gonna look.” He pounded up the stairs, two at a time.

  “There’s no point,” said Iain. He stopped me and Freddie from following Ryan. “Door’s locked. Lights are off.”

  Freddie shrugged. He hitched his bag to the opposite shoulder. “I’m going, then. I don’t want to be waiting in the rain for a bus. See you, Michael.”

  “Yeah, see you,” I muttered. And he walked away, talking swaps with Iain.

  I heard a thud at the top of the stairs and ran up. Ryan was banging his head against the pane of glass in the library door. I saw the closed sign and the unlit interior. A feeling of relief flooded through me.

  “Come on, Ryan. There’s no point hanging around.”

  “It’s not fair,” he said. “I only need three Hodges and a Dobbs and I win.”

  “Win?” I said. “What do you win?”

  “My story in a comic.” He pounded the door with his fist.

  It gave a slight click and moved a notch.

  “Awesome!” he shrieked. “Hah! It’s open!”

  “Ryan, wait.”

  But there was no stopping him. He put his weight against the door and barged right in.

  I had no choice but to follow. “Ryan! Leave it. Come on. We’ll get into trouble.” More trouble than he knew. I was certain I’d heard the click of the door latch a fraction before his fist had struck. What if AJ — or Alexander — was in here waiting? I fumbled for the panel of light switches tha
t I knew was just inside the door. I had been, at times, a library helper. Turning off the lights had been one of my jobs at the end of our book club. Now, all I could think about was turning them on. I flipped the whole set with a sweep of my hand.

  Nothing. The lights were dead.

  “Ryan! Get out. It’s not safe!” I shouted.

  “Don’t be such a loser,” he said. “Look, there are loads of them!” He was darting back and forth, gathering up cards. The library was a basic rectangular room with shelves built into the longer walls and some carousels of paperbacks between the tables. At the farthest end was a picture window that looked down onto the school’s main entrance and a fountain we called the yacking fish. (It vomited water from a fish’s mouth due to a faulty pump.) I decided to check the circulation desk, where Mrs. Rowley normally sat. It was the only place a man could have hidden. Picking up a hardback dictionary, I took a deep breath and launched myself. Nothing. An empty chair and a wastepaper basket. A stack of returned books on the floor.

  “Hey, there’s a new one.” The tempo of Ryan’s search increased. He bounced off the tables and spun a carousel. Then, suddenly, he skidded to a halt.

  “What’s the matter?” I said, still peering around. The carousels weren’t wide enough to hide a man’s body and there was nothing under any of the tables. But AJ was here. I could sense it. And now I thought I could hear it, too. The ghostly sound of marching feet.

  “Ryan, do you hear that?” I whipped around and looked at the door. It had closed by itself. “Ryan,” I hissed. “We’ve gotta get out of here!”

  Ryan was clapping his hands, slowly approaching the only other piece of furniture in the library — a folding book cart.

  He flipped two catches and swung the cart open. His eyes lit up as if he’d just entered a pharaoh’s tomb. He snatched up a comic. A slim pack of Tommy cards fell to the floor. “Magic,” he breathed. He slammed the comic down and picked up the cards. “Yes!” he said in triumph, pulling an invisible chain with his fist.