Stanly's Ghost E-Book

Stefan Mohamed

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Cynical, solitary Stanly Bird used to be a fairly typical teenager – unless you count the fact that his best friend was a talking beagle named Daryl. Then came the superpowers. And the superpowered allies. And the mysterious enemies. And the terrifying monsters. And the stunning revelations. And the apocalypse. Now he's not sure what he is. Or where he is. Or how exactly one is supposed to proceed after saving the world. All he knows is that his story isn't finished. Not quite yet …

Leseprobe

STANLY’S GHOST

Cynical, solitary Stanly Bird used to be a fairly typical teenager (apart from the fact that his best friend was a talking beagle named Daryl). Then came the superpowers. And the superpowered allies. And the mysterious enemies. And the terrifying monsters. And the stunning revelations. And the apocalypse. Now he’s not sure what he is. Or where he is. Or how exactly one is supposed to proceed after – hopefully – saving the world.

All he knows is that his story isn’t finished.

Not quite yet…

PRAISE FOR PREVIOUS WORK

‘This sparky debut puts the classic comic book origin story through the pop-cultural blender by gifting superpowers to a kid who just happens to be a massive sci-fi geek. For Smallville, substitute Tref-y-Celwyn, the mid-Welsh town where vowel-deficient teenage loner Stanly suddenly discovers a talent for flight and telekinesis. Accompanied by a potty-mouthed beagle (just go with it), Stanly up, ups and aways to London, where he throws his lot in with a bunch of Generation X-Men investigating a series of sinister child abductions. Zippy prose keeps the story barrelling along, the genre references come thick and fast (even the dog a Yoda impression does) and, in Stanly, Mohamed has created a hero you’ll really root for. A flying start.’ —Paul Kirkley,SFX Magazine

‘The plot is an absolute page turner – it is hard not to like Stanly, and Daryl (the talking dog) becomes an immediately likeable presence. The plot moves in a way that may seem relatively formulaic for those who have read a lot of Superhero tales, but the twists here are stonkingly big, and always surprising, making this a very fresh and original read. In addition, the villain is truly chilling – and one who I would love to see portrayed on screen.’ —Luke Marlowe,The Book Bag

‘If you know your Calrissian from your Kobayashi, then YA novel Bitter Sixteen is the most fun you can have in the superhero genre...’ —Aliya Whiteley,Den of Geek

Children’s Book of the Week:‘Never mind writing about superpowers, debut author Stefan Mohamed clearly has them himself – he’s produced a highly original novel for young adults that is clever and funny, with character you want to ask home afterwards.’ —Alex O’Connell,The Times

‘It’s part superhero fantasy, part comedy, with an underlying love story and a creepy twist in the tail, all served up with panache, pace and punch.’ —Sally Morris,The Daily Mail

‘Mohamed’s first novel is a thoroughly entertaining, charming and witty take on the crowded superhero subgenre.’ —Eric Brown,The Guardian

‘Mohamed does everything right: the realistic tone, leavened by humour, is pitch perfect, as is the portrayal of Stanly as a precocious but vulnerable teenager. The plot careers from one dramatic set-piece to the next, with plenty of clever pop culture references along the way, before closing with a thrilling denouement. And Daryl the talking dog is an inspired creation.’ —Eric Brown,The Guardian

‘The long-awaited follow-up to Stefan Mohamed’s brilliant Bitter Sixteen has arrived. And it’s just as good as its predecessor.’ —If These Books Could Talk

‘Old enemies mix with new enemies mix with Stanly’s own shortcomings and frustrations to create an explosive mix of plot twists and revelations that had me gasping in shock, or running to hide behind the sofa.’ —Jen Gallagher,Medieval Jenga

‘Doing what so many sequels fail to do,Ace of Spiderssoars, with a thrilling plot, brilliant character development, and fantastically funny cultural references.’ —Luke Marlowe,The Bookbag

Stanly’s Ghost

STEFAN MOHAMEDis an author, poet, occasional journalist and full-time geek. He lives in Bristol, where he does something in editorial. Find out things you never wanted to know about him at www.stefmo.co.uk

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

International House, 24 Holborn Viaduct,London EC1A 2BN United Kingdom

All rights reserved

Copyright © Stefan Mohamed,2017

The right ofStefan Mohamedto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2017

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-78463-077-5 electronic

To Agent Ben, for the frankly ludicrous levels of faith

??????????????????????

‘Where’s Tara?’

Kloe nuzzles into my neck. Her hair has dark blue streaks today. I point straight up with a sleepy smile and Kloe’s eyes follow the gesture. She laughs when she sees her, our little girl, red and blonde against the summer sky, chasing clouds, raining giggles. I’ve always got one mental eye on her, just in case. I know she’d never fall, but even if she did, it’d be fine. I’d catch her.

Kloe walks two fingers across my bare chest and I shiver. The grass is slightly damp beneath us, cool and full of oxygen, the lake ripples contentedly, alive with the tiny sporadic splashes of playful fish, and the trees sway meditatively, tall enough to tickle the sky, the forest’s low chant echoing between them.Whispering.

‘What are we going to do today, then?’ I stroke Kloe’s head.

‘I foresee more of this.’

‘Cooool.’

Whispering again. I’m sure that it’s the shiver of the trees, of leaves in the wind, but I’m also sure I can hear the suggestion of words. I can’t make them out properly, though, so I ignore them. A yawn rolls out of me and Kloe catches it and yawns too. Above us, Tara’s joyful laughter is like escaped memories, finally free . . .

Help us. . .

I shake my head. ‘I’m hearing things. First sign of madness, isn’t it? Or is that talking to yourself?’

‘One or the other.’ Kloe smiles. ‘But you’re a bit late for that, I’m afraid. You’ve been knitting with only one needle for a long time.’

I laugh and grab her and we roll over on the grass and everything’s perfect.

Except it isn’t. The wind has a steel edge and I can definitely hear voices, scratchy and blurry but growing more and more insistent. Help us.

Shadow . . .

The story-book sky has dimmed. I wasn’t aware of it happening, it’s just . . . grey now. Tara is still flying but her laughter is faint. I stand up and Kloe asks me what’s wrong, but her voice has lost clarity. I look at her, she’s there, I can touch her, but she doesn’t feel right.

‘I don’t know.’ My voice doesn’t sound right either. The sky is granite, smothered by cold cloud, the trees still as charcoal pictures, the lake a sickly green murk.

Help us.

It came from behind me. I spin around but there is nothing there. I know the voice. The voices. All the same but all different. I reach for Kloe but she’s not there. I call for her but she doesn’t answer.

Shadow . . .

I look up and yell Tara’s name. I can still make out her shape, just about, but the definition has gone. Help us. I try to fly to her but I can’t, my wings have gone and so has the sun. Night snarls down, the stars bound and gagged and stashed away. Shadow. I scream for Tara but my voice doesn’t come and she’s not there anyway, I know she isn’t, she’s gone and my stomach is filling with pain, as though burning hot liquid is being poured in from somewhere. I double over. I feel like I’m losing bits of myself. Help us . . . ithurts . . .

A voice from another life murmurs shimmers in the forest and for a second I’m surrounded by beings made of pure, translucent blue. The agony is rising, snapping, boiling, seeping through pores and coiling black tentacles around my body, dragging me down. Help us. I’m lost in the dark, lost, drowning, thrashing around in living water, but no, it’s dying around me . . . screaming . . . no air . . . I’m fighting to get to the surface but I can’t, and through the blue and silver I can see a black shape and I want to scream but my mouth and throat are full of dying water—

Help us—

Shadow—

PART ONE

Chapter One

Iopened myeyes, in a manner of speaking. Actually, it was more like they were opened for me . . . although I couldn’t feel it happening. I tried to move, but couldn’t. Tried to speak. Couldn’t. It was a familiar non-feeling, not that that made it any better.

Freeman?Is that you?

I became aware of my surroundings. A cramped public toilet, grimy walls sweating away the dregs of old posters, a general shiny stickiness to the floors and sinks. I tried to look down at myself, tried to raise my hands, but nothing was responding. I couldn’t even blink. It was like I was a camera, being watched by somebody else.

The shimmers . . .

Things started flooding into my brain, which was a relief in one way because it meant that my brain was still working. In other, very important ways, it was the absolute opposite of relief. I was suddenly swamped with images: Kloe and Tara, alone in the woods. Eddie, broken beyond repair. Connor’s furious face. Sharon’s tears. Daryl’s angry, bloodstained muzzle. Freeman disappearing back to a ravaged, devastated London, triumphant. Me, saving the scumbag’s life. Overwhelmed by memory and feeling but with no mouth to scream, no eyes to cry . . .

What exactly the hell kind of fresh hell is this, then?

I thought Freeman’s name with as much ferocity as a non-specific ineffable presence could muster, but there was nothing. No indication that he was there or anywhere nearby, no suggestion of thoughts exerting their control over me. Just me, floating, disembodied, like a ghost . . .

Something made me turn towards the main door, just as it opened. A man was standing there. Tall, spindly, greasy-haired, leather jacket, gun. He gave no sign that he’d seen me. A toilet flushed and I turned again, against my will – if the concept of my will even meant anything now – to see a cubicle door open. If I’d been able to, I would have gasped.

It was me.

He was several years older, his hair longer, face a little more weathered, but he was definitely me. He stepped out and turned and I turned with him, and the tall stranger raised his gun and fired three times. I swung back, crying out silently, watching bullets thump brutally into my own chest. The impact knocked him backwards and big dark poppies of blood spread across the dirty wall behind him. The wounded Stanly collapsed to the floor, gasping, clutching at his wounds, and I kept staring, unable to even consider doing anything else.

What am I seeing?

The gunman walked towards the other Stanly. Smiled.

Levelled his weapon . . .

Then Stanly looked up, with a look in his eyes that I knew well, even if I’d never exactly seen it myself.

The man’s gun arm dropped to his side. He struggled, trying and failing to raise it, while the wounded Stanly got unsteadily to his feet. The older me closed his eyes, making a real effort to concentrate, to control his heavy, rasping breaths, then jerked painfully as three bullets exited his chest in a cloud of red spray and fell to the floor with a high, cheerful jingling noise. Through his torn T-shirt, I saw his wounds close, bloody, brutalised flesh becoming smooth, unblemished skin.

Stanly opened his eyes.

He smiled again.

The man with the gun had just enough time to make a disbelieving face before he flew backwards, as if he’d been yanked by an invisible rope. He smashed straight through the door and crashed to the ground outside on a bed of splintered wood, groaning. Stanly, giving no indication that he’d been even mildly injured, dusted himself off and walked past me.

What—

The thought didn’t have time to complete itself, because suddenly I was somewhere else. Desperately, I tried to bring my racing, disconnected mind under control. I needed to think straight. I was not in the shimmer world anymore, submerged in the living lake. I supposed that this could have been a series of crazy dreams, theoretically, but shimmer dreams didn’t feel like this. There I dreamt of serenity, of Kloe and Tara, peace and quiet and beautiful flight. Comforting, soft-focus lies. This was categorically not like that.

Plus, I couldn’t really think in there. Not properly. And I certainly didn’t experience grief, the gnawing animal pain currently lurking at the back of my cognition, waiting for its moment to break through and claim what rightfully belonged to it. Memories desperate to escape . . . and not in a joyful way . . .

Think,damn it.

I was trying, but at the same time I couldn’t help but take in this new place, because it was fairly stunning, like a digitally spruced up watercolour painting of someone’s idealised dream of the countryside: soft green hills and fields unrolling in every direction further than I could see, dotted with proud and majestic trees, a staggering view drenched in sun . . .

Then my view tilted downward . . .

Oh.

Monsters. Hundreds of them, all different. A centipede longer and fatter than a London bus. A shifting mass of black goo, limbs forming and un-forming with a grotesque slurping sound. Unholy combinations of bear, insect and asymmetrical shape. A huge armoured cockroach with tentacles sprouting from its back.There are always tentacles.A purple dragon, a five-legged rock man, several undulating black serpents with wickedly curved spines. Spiders.

There are always spiders too.

And at the centre of this ring of monsters, one small figure, in a fighting stance.

Another me.

WHAT—

A series of staccato flashes: a desert, with a younger me, barely fifteen, blasting a line of tanks into the sky with a thought and a giggle—

A hospital ward, a sea of vicious injuries, burns and blood and protruding bone, and an olderbearded me, mid-forties perhaps, sitting by a low bed, eyes closed. He was healing the patient who lay there, horrific mottled black and red scars receding—

A city street at night and another me, thirty-odd, viciously beaten, bloodied, reaching out . . . toanotherme. Ayoungerme. Something was happening, I couldn’t see it but I couldfeelit, even in my non-anything state,power, glowing in the older me, rising in the younger me, as though one was inspiring it in the other, turning it on like a light switch—

WHAT THE WHAT—

Now flying, far above the ground, so high that the world was just an indistinct blur of colour. There was someone else flying a little way below me, arms outstretched, rolling and laughing. I caught a glimpse of his face a couple of times, not that I needed to. This Stanly was in his twenties and had bits of blonde in his dark hair, which was pretty odd.

Yeah, this was all standard operating procedure before,but blonde highlights?Yeah,they really tip things over the edge. However will—

SHUT.IT.

I waited for the inevitable attack, flying monsters or fighter planes or a giant robot version of my old headmaster or whatever trippy bollocks I was expected to endure next, but none came. I just floated in the air, watching my other self having fun, falling with style.

Great. I can remember Toy Story.

All is not lost.

I kept threatening to break down, or the non-corporeal equivalent of breaking down, because Eddie’s face kept coming back to me, cut to shreds, lifeless, with Connor’s voice saying your fault your fault your fault over and over again, even though he’d never actually said it, at least not to my face, but I forced it away. If and when the time came I could mourn Eddie, miss those who I’d left behind, punish myself for allowing Freeman his victory.

Right now, though, I had to work out what was . . .

Unless . . .

I would have slapped myself in the forehead if I’d had a hand. Or a forehead.

The shimmers live in another dimension.

Something tore me out of it.

And now I’m flashing through other dimensions.

The concept of things making sense didn’t seem like something I could rely on at the moment, but that idea felt plausible. I hadn’t really entertained the notion that there were other worlds, other universes apart from mine and the shimmers’. I’d not exactly had time to ponder it extensively, but I’d sort of assumed the shimmer world was a kind of underworld, something very definitely attached to mine. A sort of Hell, though with more skyscraping beasts, surreal upside-down forests and evil lakeside soliloquies and less fire and brimstone.

Not technically a soliloquy, it was more of a conversation.

Thanks for that. You’re doing a bang up job today, brain. I should keep you on full time.

It made sense that there were more worlds. That was a thing, wasn’t it? Many-worlds theory?

So I was seeing alternate versions of myself. Other Stanlys with powers.

The Stanly below started to dive, becoming a speck within seconds, and even though I had no stomach I felt an echo of that delicious lurch, the beautiful mania of remembering I can fly, I’m ACTUALLY FLYINGRIGHT NOW, one of the best of all possible feelings . . . and with it I felt an anger, a rage that I wasn’t in charge, that something, whether that was a sneaky unseen presence or just some bonkers consequence of extra-dimensional physics, was robbing me of my agency. I wanted to be flying, not just floating here like psychic mist babbling a hysterical director’s commentary that only I could hear.

You’re not really the director though, are you?

Seriously brain, don’t make me come in there and—

Oh shut up.

HOW ABOUT YOU SHUT UP. I. Want. To.

FLY!

There was no pop. No flash. But that command, thatdesire,and the desperation behind it, had done something, because I was a person again.I was solid!

I was whole!

I was . . .

Plummeting through a freezing sky in hilariously inadequate hospital pyjamas, pounded by ferocious winds, limbs flailing.

Screaming my lungs out.

It wasamazing.

All right.Let’s punch it.

I took command. Felt my power, felt myself return to myself. Brought my descent under control, pulled up, flew.

Yes.

Yes!

YE—

NO!

I was gone again. Incorporeal, insubstantial, floating in yet another new place that I didn’t recognise. This time it was a snowy city, all wonky neon and dilapidated buildings, mournful and neglected in the night.

This was starting to get pretty tiresome. Listen, I thought, trying to think loudly and authoritatively. If there’s someone doing this, show yourself. Please. Hello? Freeman? Is it you? Don’t give me more reasons to kill you. Hello? Hello? HELLO? Shit.

Another me walked past and I followed against my will. He was about my age, bundled up in a long grey coat and a silly red hat with furry ear flaps.

No. Ignore him.

Instead, I concentrated on me. My self-image. My legs, arms, face. I concentrated on my voice. On the feeling of being able to speak. The feeling of using limbs.

Maybe being anaesthetised in the shimmer lake had made me like this?

How long had I been there?

I pictured myself fighting, laughing, running, kissing, eating.

I imagined those feelings. Tried to translate the physicality into something mental, so my brain could really taste the memories.

Tried to break through, force myself into reality.

Tried so, so, so hard.

It didn’t work.

AAAAARGH! Bloody let me out, you buggering shitweasel! Whoever you are, let me out or you’re going to be really fucking sorry!

I could have laughed at the stupidity of that thought. For one thing, I had no idea whether someone was actually doing this to me. And for another, I didn’t feel like I was going to be making anyone really fucking sorry about anything any time soon.

I managed to break out of this before.

By flying.

I tried picturing myself flying again, forgetting everything else. Just flight. Flight. I conjured the memories, bathed in them. Nothing. This was the prize jewel in the crown of frustration. I’d managed it before. I’d freed myself. And I knew the thought, the feeling that had done it, I knew it in the abstract, but I couldn’t quite visualise it properly. Couldn’t bring it to the forefront. It was like it was hovering just out of reach . . .

If someone is messing with me, you’d better hope I never find you.

If it wasn’t a person doing this, though . . . maybe I was just collateral damage? Maybe the release of power when the shimmers had died – if they had died – had sent me screaming off, flying through parallel universes, an intangible ball of consciousness?

Maybe I’ll settle down at some point?

Maybe I’ll land somewhere and it’ll be normal?

It happened once, it can happen again . . .

Although that might mean interacting with another version of myself. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. And might it cause a paradox and destroy the space-time continuum?

I really wish all my science knowledge didn’t come from films.

The latest me had stopped on a deserted, snow-caked street, as though waiting for a bus he wasn’t terribly bothered about catching.

Except he wasn’t waiting for a bus. He was waiting for . . .

These guys.

Five men emerged from the shadows, all clad in black and variously armed with knives and guns. They all looked mean. Oh . . . and two of them were women.

This new Stanly stood, watching them come.

‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ said one of the women.

OK.Come on.Time for the big fight scene.

Stanly raised his hand. ‘Don’t fight me.’

The five assailants were immediately still, their expressions glazed, limbs floppy.

‘Drop your weapons,’ said Stanly.

They each dropped their weapons.

‘Forget about me, and the House of Bird.’

Seriously?The House of Bird?!

C’MON. . .

‘Go home. Be nice to your partners. Sleep soundly. Wake up as better people.’

All five nodded, turned and went their separate ways. Stanly watched them go, smiling to himself, then melted into the darkness.

Holy crap. Jedi mind tri—

Chapter Two

—ick.

I was somewhere else again . . . but immediately, something was different.

No, lots of things.

I felt warm.

I could blink.

I was . . .

Physical.

‘I’m here,’ I whispered. My voice made a sound. Real. A real voice. ‘I’m here!’ I yelled.

I’m—

Oh God—

A tsunami of nausea, as though every cell in my body had gone from sober to blackout drunk in less than a second. I dropped to my knees. My limbs felt like paper. I vomited and so did my brain, raw power spewing out of my head, and I heard the sound of a tree snapping in half and immediately threw up again, falling sideways onto the ground – grass – spasming violently, gasping, drawing my knees up to my chest.

Wh—

Wha—

What—

What t—

Seen this—

I’ve seen—

This—

Before—

CONTROL—

I’d seen empowered go through this, waking up from shimmer-induced slumber, unable to control their power. I’d been responsible for it. The pain in my body and head, the sickness, was bad enough, but there was other pain too, memories, emotions, flooding in. I’d been aware of them before when I’d been floating around: grief for Eddie, fear of what had become of my other friends, shame and fury about Freeman and what I’d allowed him to do, but the thoughts had been abstract. Now they were hitting me physically. This was too much. No way could I cope with this, come back from this, no . . .

No.

You WILL deal with this.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think around myself, think a cocoon. Tried to bring my breathing under control, calm my racing pulse, stop the trembling.

Concentrate.

CONCENTRATE, YOU PATHETIC WASTE.

I opened my eyes again but everything swam. Oh God, no. I slammed them shut again.

Feel.

Smell.

Listen.

Where . . .

It was definitely grass beneath me, warm and springy. Fresh. Alive. Countryside? I could feel sun beaming down. No voices, no vehicles. That was lucky. At least I hadn’t materialised in Piccadilly Circus, or in the middle of a war zone or something.

Come on, kid. Calm down.

I tried to remember what I’d done to help those wretched empowered and do it to myself, turn my own thoughts inward, bring myself in for a soft landing. After a little while I even risked opening my eyes again and this time I could actually see properly. I was lying in a flat, grassy clearing surrounded by trees, the uppermost branches and leaves haloed with sunlight, baby blue sky beyond. The grass smelled damp and lush. Springtime smells. I drank it in. Smell helped.

Smell.

Touch.

I gripped the grass and my whole body tingled. Amazing how much I’d learned to miss my other senses when I’d been without them for . . . how long? I had no idea. I’d barely had time to get used to them again when I’d reappeared in the sky above that one world. This whole thing, this weird trip, felt as though it might have been going on for twenty minutes . . . but God knew what it had done to my sense of time.

I managed to sit, then stand. My legs were weak, but not as weak as they thought they were, and I took a few exploratory steps, avoiding the sick I’d produced, which was not a healthy colour.

I’m hungry.

Maybe—

Wait—

Someone was coming through the trees and I didn’t have time to think about hiding. I doubted I could have moved quickly enough anyway, in my current state. They’d definitely seen me now.

They . . . she.

A girl.

She was my age, give or take a year, olive-skinned, her brown-blonde hair pulled back into a dreadlocked thicket, and she wore big mud-caked boots and a functional brown and green outfit that looked like the sort of thing you’d wear while out hunting. This made sense, because she also carried an elegantly curved longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across her back.

Holy tights. I’ve gone back to Robin Hood times.

The girl stopped a safe distance away and eyed me with healthy suspicion, although gratifyingly she didn’t immediately reach for an arrow.

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hi.’ My voice was like stagnant water.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was mostly neutral with a slight edge of suspicion.

She speaks English. Cool.

‘Um,’ I said again.

Her eyes dropped briefly, taking in my dirty bare feet, hospital pyjamas and no doubt sickly complexion. ‘Have you escaped from somewhere?’

‘Kind of.’ I realised what she was implying. ‘Oh! You mean like a mental institution? No! I’m not an escaped mental patient.’

That got an unimpressed laugh. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, fair point.’

OK, soshe thought I might be a mental patient. Which means this could be my world. And it implies twentieth century at least, rather than Robin Hood times.

Why the bow and arrow, then?

The girl stared at me as though unconvinced that she could trust a single word that came out of my mouth. I didn’t blame her. Then she glanced away and her eyes fell on the tree I’d broken. ‘What . . .’

Oops.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

She frowned. ‘You cut my tree down?’

Her tree?

‘Not exactly.’ I moved towards her but she took a few corresponding steps back and – balls – reached for an arrow. Even though I knew I could break it in half before it reached me, I froze and raised my hands. ‘Woah! No need for that. Sorry, I’ll stay right here. Look . . . don’t worry. I’m harmless. Really.’

‘That sounds like the sort of thing someone who wasn’t harmless might say.’ She positioned the arrow on the bow, although she didn’t point it at me. ‘And you just told me you accidentally cut down my tree.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Where’s your axe? Hidden axe also implies you might not be harmless . . .’

‘No axe.’ I spread my hands further apart. ‘Promise. I’m absolutely not an axe murderer.’

She laughed. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

‘Kind of . . . not.’

‘Then you don’t know how ridiculous that is.’

‘What?’

‘The idea that I’d be at all worried about meeting an axe murderer. That would be far too interesting.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Are you all right? Do you need help?’

‘Really . . . not all right,’ I said. ‘I . . . do you have a drink, by any chance?’

She nodded.

‘Could I have a bit? I don’t have any diseases.’

‘Every time you say you aren’t something, or that you don’t have something, it sounds like you actually are that. Or do have that.’

‘Sorry.’

She put the arrow back in its quiver and placed her bow reverently on the ground, then reached into her pocket and withdrew an unmarked bottle full of clear liquid. She tossed it over.

‘Water?’ I said.

‘Vodka.’

‘Really?’

A sardonic tilt of the head. ‘No.’

I opened the bottle, sniffed it to be sure and took a gulp. Water had never tasted so tasty. I drank as much as I thought was polite before throwing it back. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. So . . . you’re not from around here.’

‘No.’

‘But you’ve lost your shoes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I . . .’ What the hell to say? ‘Tref-y-Celwyn?’

‘Where’s that?’

‘OK, never mind. London?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

She spoke English like someone from England. A modern someone, too. And she seemed pretty intelligent. But she hadn’t heard of London. Which meant that I was definitely, one hundred per cent, in a parallel universe.

Probably.

I sat down heavily, making her jump. ‘Do you need me to call a doctor?’ she asked. She sounded more concerned than suspicious now.

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ I put my head in my hands. The initial nausea had faded, leaving just a general upset stomach feeling, but I was starting to feel a very severe kind of mental vertigo. I imagined that it was a delayed reaction, as I hadn’t exactly had the necessary tools to process dimension-hopping before. I almost wished I was intangible again.

‘I could take you to one?’

‘No thanks. I don’t think I do need a doctor, actually . . . I need . . .’ I decided to hedge my bets. ‘My memory’s a bit . . . gone. In places. Where am I?’

‘You’re near Dramawn.’

‘Dramawn . . . that’s a town?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which country?’

‘Cwmren.’

‘Cwmren.’ It sounded like the Welsh word for Wales, but a bit different. ‘OK. Um . . .’

‘You’re really strange,’ said the girl, smiling as though she’d found some unattractive but scientifically fascinating plant life.

‘Thanks.’

‘And I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.’

‘Probably not.’ I tried a smile of my own. It felt weak. ‘My name’s Stanly.’

‘Senia,’ she said, after a few seconds’ hesitation.

Senia. Not an English name. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I held out my hand. After a second she held out hers, but before we could shake I disappeared again.

Sigh.

More flashes. That desert again, except now I was looking at a statue, hundreds of feet tall . . .

A statue ofme—

Sky. A jumbo jet, engines aflame, spiralling down, closely pursued by . . .

Guess who—

The valley of monsters, older me fighting off swarming beasts . . .

OK I GET THE PICTURE—

Green. Trees. Blue sky. And . . . I could feel. I could move.

I was me again.

I dropped to my knees and threw up yet again. Physically, that is, and with no accompanying release of power, which was probably a good thing. There wasn’t a great deal left for me to throw up, admittedly, but what was there seemed to need to come up.

Composure regained, I stood up and looked around, wiping my mouth. I was back in the clearing where I’d met Senia . . . and there she was, walking towards me. She was dressed differently, but she still had that suspicious look on her face. More importantly, she was pointing her bow and arrow at me.

‘I wondered if you’d reappear,’ she said.

‘I . . . disappeared?’

She nodded.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That was . . . I didn’t do it on purpose.’

‘My theory was right,’ said Senia.

‘Theory?’

‘That you’d reappear today.’

‘Today? You mean . . . what do you mean? How long have I been gone?’

‘A day. Twenty-four hours exactly.’

What. The. Shit. I shook my head. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. I really haven’t got a clue what’s going on. I’m as confused as you probably are . . .’ I frowned. ‘Hold on . . . why did you come back?’

Senia looked baffled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean . . . I appeared out of nowhere, accidentally knocked down a tree, said a lot of weird nonsense, then disappeared. Weren’t you freaked out?’

‘“Freaked out”?’ She said it as though she’d never heard the phrase, which I guessed was plausible.

‘You know. Scared?’

‘A bit. Hence . . .’ She nodded at her weapon.

I laughed. ‘What, did you think I was a demon or something?’

She gave me an impressively sarky look. ‘What do I look like? Some sort of primitive?’

Ouch. Is it OK to say ‘primitive’ like that?

Maybe they don’t have PC in this world.

‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘you’re the one pointing the bow and arrow.’

Senia took a few seconds to think, then lowered her bow. ‘Seemed sensible.’

‘Probably. So . . . why did you come back?’

‘Mysterious boy appears and vanishes minutes later?’ Senia smiled properly for the first time since I’d met her. ‘Then reappears at the same time the next day? It’s like a story! Why wouldn’t I come back?’

Ordinarily that might have made me laugh, but it just made me hear Freeman’s voice in my head, sneering about stories. It reminded me how pathetic he’d made me feel. How he’d taken something I loved and . . .

Forget it. Forget him.

For now.

Also . . .

Hold on—

‘Aaah!’ I jumped to my feet and Senia recoiled in shock, one hand going instinctively towards her arrows.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

I’d felt something. It prickled the back of my neck, disturbing my blood, like a pebble tossed into a lake. A force, beneath everything else. Power.

It was going to happen again.

‘I’m going to disappear,’ I said. ‘I can feel it coming.’

‘Could you feel it before?’

‘No, this is the first time . . . and I’m not going again. Screw this. I’ve had enough.’ I gritted my teeth and gripped the ground with my bare feet, feeling the grass, the solidity beneath, thinking no. I concentrated on the trees and the sky around me. I was in charge and I wanted to stay here. I’m in charge.

I’m in charge of me.

I could feel it, though. Like a current, when you swim out further than you should have, that inexorable tug, pulling you where it wants you to go. I could feel no design underneath, no personality, no emotion. Just the tug.

Maybe it was natural, after all.

That scared me a lot more than the idea that someone had been doing it to me.

I felt myself begin to fade.

No. Not going. NOT GOI—

OK. Maybe going.

I was still physical, which was a relief, but I wasn’t in Senia’s world anymore. I was standing on the beach in the cave of shimmers, a tiny speck in their vast, scarlet citadel of alien rock. The lake, which should have been a deep, dream-like blue, glowing with unknowable life, was black sludge, and the cave was thick with a repulsive smell of rotting and wrongness. It made me gag.

So they are dead.

I was sorry. It was awful. I hoped there were more of them, somewhere.

ButIhadn’t killed them. I hadn’t meant for them to come to any harm.

Just as they hadn’t meant for any harm to come to my world.

So I owed them nothing, at least not for now.

I closed my eyes and thoughtback.

Back to the other world.

Back to the clearing.

I pictured the grass, the trees, the sky. I pictured Senia. I brought back the smell, the temperature, the taste of the air.

Recalled the conversation we’d been having.

Tried to find cracks between here and there, cracks into which I could slip psychic fingers, prise open a doorway . . .

Concentrated so hard that my temples began to pulse.

But nothing happened.

‘Damn it,’ I said. ‘OK, whoever you are, how about—’

Chapter Three

‘—you . . . show . . .’OK.

Cold.

Sharp underfoot.

Hold on . . .

I was standing on a mound of rubble which, on closer inspection, was all that remained of one half of a building. The other half was still standing, just about, although it looked dangerously close to collapsing. Hanging off the edge of one partially destroyed floor was a huge framed photograph that I recognised. A black and white image of London.

This was the Kulich Gallery.

I lifted a few centimetres off the rubble to avoid getting shards in my bare feet and floated down to the ground. Looking up at the gutted building made my stomach turn. It was simultaneously more imposing than it had ever been – the exposed brickwork, girders and wood looked like the teeth of some primeval beast – and weirdly forlorn. Where before there had been an electrified fence of some kind there were now big, solid barriers, more than twice as tall as I was, with coils of razor wire connecting smart-looking CCTV cameras. I couldn’t see what lay beyond.

Is this home?

The building was obviously familiar, but after what I’d just been through I didn’t want to assume that I was back in the right world. Maybe something similar had happened in a different one.

It feels like home.

I couldn’t trust that, though. I rose up to peer over the barriers and saw two more layers of fences, some of which looked to be electrified, and plenty more viciously sharp razor wire. And beyond that . . .

I barely managed to stop myself before I hit the ground.

OK, deep breath.

Try again.

I floated shakily back up and looked again. Fences . . . razor wire . . . cameras . . . and then the river Thames, criss-crossed with bridges, some brand-new, some only halfway to ­completion . . .

And then the skyline.

A new skyline.

‘This can’t be home.’ Saying it out loud felt safer than just thinking it. It meant that I believed it. Or that it sounded like I believed it, at least.

I’d seen plenty of devastation, but it had all been under cover of darkness, lit by otherworldly lightning and the glow of explosions. In a way, it hadn’t seemed real. Now, in the light of day, it was like a boot in the gut. Many of the buildings were smashed husks, encased in protective webs of scaffolding and bridged by the arms of huge cranes, but some had already been fixed, to the point of being unrecognisable. Brand-new edifices of shining chrome and glass, like someone had plonked new buildings in there . . . even Big Ben had a new face. Similar, but different.

Different. . . like, why?

Either make it the same or . . .

I shook my head. More information needed. I zipped up and over the layers of fences and touched down on cracked concrete. It was, at a guess, February, and a raw breeze rustled its way under my pathetic hospital pyjamas. I looked down at them, ill-fitting around my legs and ending well above my ankles, and at my bare feet, which were pretty filthy at this point. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What a state.’ I giggled. It wasn’t a healthy sound.

Right.

Come on.

Let’s go.

I walked away from the gallery towards the street where we’d once parked my parents’ car, with an Angel Group heavy locked in the boot. Last time I’d seen that car I’d been psychically hurling it at a huge slimy monster. It felt like mere hours ago . . . but it also didn’t. I didn’t really know how long ago it felt like. I didn’t even really know how I felt generally. I was making a major effort to keep calm, to breathe normally, to think clearly, to be in the now. What was I doing right now? I was trying to find more information. For the moment, all that other stuff, other universes, other Stanlys, it all had to go in a brain box, locked away, along with Eddie and Kloe and Tara and Freeman and everyone, everything, else.

There were no cars on this road, but as I walked I saw that vehicles were passing across the junction at the end. Some of them looked normal, old, dented, rusty, but some looked . . . new. Generally bigger and shinier, but more streamlined too. Some of the traffic lights were also different. Curved and grey, rather than boxy and black.

I don’t like what I’m seeing.

A high mechanical whistling noise made me look up, just as something white zipped overhead, travelling incredibly fast. It looked familiar.

Drone?

I turned on the spot, looking around, checking the different corners of sky that I could see from here. Sure enough, there were more: sleek shapes, smaller than the ones I’d encountered in the past, zipping here and there, keeping a watchful eye.

I really don’t like what I’m seeing.

I kept walking, emerging a few moments later on a street lined with businesses. Shops, cafés. Normal places. There were a lot of boarded-up buildings and several that were still basically ruins, propped up by scaffolding, but many were open. People were buying things. They were eating.

Where—

No—

WHEN—

NO—

I spun to my right, looking wildly around for someone to speak to. A middle-aged woman had just stepped out of a nearby shop and her eyes widened as she clocked me, her grip tightening on her shopping bags. I imagined I looked pretty terrifying, boggle-eyed and messy-haired in my hospital getup, stinking and shoeless.

‘Excuse me!’ I said. ‘What’s the date, please?’

The woman squinted at me. ‘You what? It’s Tuesday . . .’

‘No, the date, please.’

Not the kind of question you want from a stranger looking like me. ‘March,’ she said, nervously. ‘The fifteenth of March.’

Oh God.

Don’t do this to me.

‘No,’ I said. And as the next words came out of my mouth I suddenly felt weirdly light. Thishadto be a dream, surely? Nobody in real life ever had to say the words I was saying, did they? This conversation I’d seen endlessly repeated in films and television series, this clichéd time-travel bollocks? Even this, telling myself that it had to be a dream, was so familiar. I was a dream me, or a fictional me wandering through a film version of my own life, some messed-up hyper-meta adaptation. Or whoever had taken me between universes was messing with me.

Surely.

‘No,’ I said again. ‘I mean . . . whatyear.’

Haha.

Still in a story.

Always a story.

‘Are you all right, love?’ The woman, to her credit, was looking more sympathetic than scared now.

‘Not even remotely. Please, what year is it?’

She said a year at me. I said it back at her. She said it again, but more slowly. I said it back at the same speed I’d said it before. I’ve never been the best at maths, but it still took an embarrassingly long time for me to work out how long it had been between the present as I understood it and the date I’d just been given.

I did realise, though, the penny dropping like a nuclear bomb, the mushroom cloud rising and spelling out the words MIND BLOWN in incandescent bubble writing, higher than the sky. Some time later I’d look back on this moment and thinkwow, wish I could have seen my face.

And her face when I vanished into thin air.

I fell to my knees on damp grass, body shaking, hyperventilating. Someone was speaking, using a girl’s voice, who? I couldn’t look up, just had to stare at the ground, ground, grounding – maybe if I hold on for a couple of hours I’ll stop shaking – ­gripping grass – alliteration – trying to think of any word but those two, don’t think of those words, please, just look at the glass, the grass even – oh God here it comes – and now I retched, hard, like I was going to lose some organs. There didn’t seem to be anything else that could come out at this point.

F—

No.

The voice, I realised, was Senia’s. She was asking me what was wrong. What could she do. What was the matter. Her voice was far away, muffled, echoing . . .

Can’t say.

Fi—

NO—

FIVE YEARS.

Oops.

Let myself think it.

I started to laugh. My body was fluctuating between feeling terribly heavy, so heavy, and utterly weightless, feathery, buoyant. I straightened up – not flying right though haha – and fell backwards in superduperultraslowmotion, down down down onto the grass—

No, not grass. Something hard. And wow. Noise. My hearing rushed back into my ears, bringing with it a cacophany of car horns, shouting, sirens. I sat up. I was on the bonnet of a car at the intersection where I’d been moments – hours days FIVE YEARS – ago. The road ahead was full of sleek police cars and black jeeps – recognise those ’cept ooh they’re a bit different – and people in uniforms. Police uniforms. And . . . other uniforms. Smart, black. White As on the shoulders, like epaulettes. I swivelled and jumped off the bonnet of the car, landing unsteadily in the road – ow my feet – with the car’s horn blaring at me, the driver gesticulating, shouting. A helicopter chugged overhead, flanked by a whole squad of white torpedo-like drones.

What is happening, please?

Voices. People with megaphones, shouting. Presumably at me. ‘Stay where you are!’ Guns cocked. Not everyone had guns, though. Some of the people in the black uniforms were just staring at me. Concentrating. I could feel power.

Empowered?

Empowered . . . police?

(Stanly.)

I spun. The voice was in my head . . . and I knew who it was.

Lauren.

She was standing a little way away, her hair shorter, dark mahogany. Dyed. Looks nice.

What a thought to be having right now.

She was wearing one of those uniforms too, except the As on her shoulders were shiny and gold rather than white, and standing behind her was another woman, younger, twenty maybe, tall, black, her hair pulled back in a dark bob. She wore a similar uniform and seemed worryingly ready to attack . . .

Lauren wasn’t, though. She was reaching out to me, smiling a reassuring smile.

(It’s all right.)

Her voice in my head. Soothing. Like a warm sponge. Lilac scented. That’s what calm felt like. Actual calm. Not weird numbness. Everything else, the voices, the noise, seemed to have melted away.

‘Lauren . . .’

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You’re all right. You need to come with me.’

‘Is this the right world?’

‘Yes.’

‘Prove it.’

She spoke, but in my head again. (You’re home. I promise. A lot of time has gone by, but this is your home.)

‘I saidprove it!’ I bellowed the last two words without meaning to and with them came a wave of raw power. The car I’d landed on jerked a foot backwards. Police stumbled. Fingers tightened on triggers. The other young woman moved towards me, but Lauren barred her way with one outstretched arm and she reluctantly hung back.

‘Nobody fire!’ Lauren yelled. Her voice was so commanding. I wasn’t used to it. ‘That is a direct order! Nobody doesanythingwithout my say-so!’ She was talking to me at the same time, in my brain. It was confusing. (Nailah told you about me. When we first met, I saved you from a soldier. Down an alley. Then you stayed with me. I cooked chicken. We practised with our powers. I played the piano. We travelled to meetings via the Tube. And once via the sewers. Then we carried out the attack, and. . . it went wrong. I got hooked up to the machines. You saved me.)

No.

‘No,’ I said. ‘NO—’

Grass. I fell gratefully down, flat on my arse. It was dry again now. I looked around. Senia was there at the edge of the clearing, running towards me. ‘Stanly! Are you all right? Where did you go?’

She stopped a few feet away. I must have scared her before. Of course I scared her.

‘Home.’ The word sounded odd in my mouth. Like when you say a word loads of times and it loses all meaning, except I’d only said it once. ‘What happened? From your point of view?’

‘This is the fourth time you’ve appeared,’ said Senia. ‘The fourth day. Last time, yesterday, you were in shock . . .’

Yesterday?That was . . . like . . . ten minutes ago. . .

‘Then I disappeared again?’

She nodded. ‘And reappeared again today. Same time of day again. I was really worried.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘This is all . . . it’s intense. Like . . .’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like . . .’

Haha.

Neither can I.

‘Five years.’ I’d already said the words multiple times. Thought them multiple times. But now, saying them out loud . . . that made them true.

I closed my eyes, clutched my head—

‘There he is!’

My eyes flew open. I was back in the street, at the centre of the horrible chaos, police sirens and bright lights and helicopters and shouting, and Lauren was there, and that other woman, but before I could speak I felt something sharp in my neck and for about four seconds I felt incredibly stoned . . .

Then . . .

Then. . .

Elsewhere

It seemed as though the flowers should have been wilting, but they stayed tall and bright, mocking the sombre room with their colours and perfume. The lady lying on the white bed, leaf-like hands flat on her blanketed stomach, something that could have been a smile painted weakly on her mouth with feather-light brush strokes, was too far away to notice them, but to the old man sitting next to her bed they were a chorus of insults. A rainbow-coloured choir of disobedient children, heartlessly intruding on this private, painful moment.

His hands shook and several of the flowers fell to the ground, severed at their stalks. His eyes flickered to the remaining flowers and they recoiled, shrivelling to dead brown skeletons.

The old man looked from the dead flowers to the lady on the bed and forced himself to respect her wishes.

Forced himself to let her go.

And,quietly, she died, comfortable and content and so far away.

The old man felt her pass, and wept. He wept for a long time, quietly and with dignity, the way elderly people do, and with every tear the dead flowers decayed further. By the time he had stopped crying they were barely more than dust.

He stood up and bent over the old lady. He whispered something in her ear, kissed her cheek, stroked her hair and turned unsteadily to the window. Then he closed his eyes and did to himself what she hadn’t let him do to her. His skin flattened itself, absorbing its own wrinkles, re-distributing and removing them. Liver spots and other blemishes faded. He straightened up and muscles began to re-assert their dominance. Inside, his bones and organs changed, shrugging off decay and illness and decrepitude, and his sunken eyes began to shine again with youth. The process hurt. He could have stopped it from hurting but he chose not to.

The young man reached into his bag and removed a change of clothes. As he changed, he refused to look at the old lady in the bed. He had only ever seen her with old eyes. Now his eyes were young again and their memory of her would be as she had been. Young and smiling. Running. Alive.

The young man stepped out of the room just as a nuse arrived. He had seen her every day for weeks.‘Thank you for looking after her,’he said, with a smile. The quality of the smile was the only thing that might have suggested his real age.

The nurse’s face creased in confusion.‘I’m sorry . . . who are you?’

‘No-one. Goodbye.’ The young man turned and walked away and the nurse stood shaking her head, certain that she must have seen him before.

PART TWO

Chapter Four

I felt myselfbegin to wake up, consciousness and unconsciousness still sloppily intertwined. I had a vague memory of cars . . . police . . . a clearing . . .

A cabin in the woods . . .

And . . .

Oh no.

I sat up, felt sick and lay straight back down again. I was on a hospital bed in a small private room, hooked up to various machines by long wires and sticky pads, surrounded by a general computer-ish hum and rhythmic bleeps and bloops that presumably represented my current physical state. Didn’t sound too bad.

Must be faulty.

Sitting in a chair next to the bed was Lauren. She had short hair and wore black.

‘Right,’ I said, groggily, throat dry, voice cracking. ‘Not a dream, then.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ignoring the nausea, I pulled myself into a sitting position and took a proper look around the room. Sickly green curtains drawn across the only window. One wall dominated by a wardrobe, the other by a huge painting of a serene tropical beach. For some reason, I felt as though there should have been dead flowers, an old man . . . what? An old who?

Dream?

Dream . . .

Like this isn’t.

I glanced down at my arms. ‘What’s—’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Lauren. ‘We needed to monitor you, that’s all. Make sure there were no adverse effects from the shimmers. Or from the tranquiliser.’

‘Cheers for that, by the way.’

‘We had to take you down quickly. I wasn’t sure that powers would be enough.’

‘And were there any adverse effects?’

‘No.’

Good to know.

‘We also removed the bullet we found in your shoulder,’ said Lauren.

‘Oh.’ I glanced down at my shoulder. There was no sign that there had ever been a bullet in it. ‘Actually forgot about that. Thanks.’ I coughed. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

‘Almost a day,’ said Lauren. ‘Seems as though you needed the sleep.’ She smiled suddenly, as though she’d lost control of her face. ‘Sorry, but . . . it’s so strange. You don’t look a day older.’

‘Yeah.’ There was a dispenser of water next to my bed and I poured a cup and sipped.

Lauren pursed her lips uncomfortably and her eyes fell to her lap. ‘Sorry.’

I lay back again. My body felt so heavy, like a big bag of wet mash. ‘So the world didn’t end.’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

‘Shortly after you left us . . . maybe an hour . . . the monsters just faded away. Like they were never even there. It was eerie. They did some damage in the meantime . . . but it could have been worse.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’ That is good. Sound like you mean it. ‘There was . . . I remember there was another big one. Did it . . .’

‘It’s been in and out of my nightmares ever since,’ said Lauren. ‘But we got it. It was sort of . . . stuck, halfway between, like the big green one. If it had been properly mobile . . . doesn’t bear thinking about.’

I nodded. ‘How is everyone?’

‘Everyone?’

Don’t make me go Gary Oldman on you. ‘You know. Kloe, Tara, Sharon, Daryl. Skank. Connor. Everyone.’

‘I don’t know where Kloe is, I’m afraid,’ said Lauren. ‘I know she was OK, she survived, but that’s all I know. Everyone made it.’

Apart from Eddie. Tears were queuing up for entry but I turned down their applications with extreme prejudice. ‘What about Nailah? And my parents?’

‘Nailah is fine too, yes. And as far as I know, so are your parents.’

How would she even know?

She’s probably just trying to make me feel better.

It seemed as though a subject change might be appropriate. ‘So you work for the Angel Group?’

‘It’s Angelcorp now.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Terrible name.’

‘It wasn’t my idea.’

‘Just awful.’

‘Like I said, it wasn’t . . .’

‘Whose idea was it, then?’ I asked. ‘Freeman? He’s in charge, I presume?’

She nodded.

I closed my eyes and gripped the sides of my limp, spongy mattress. Don’t psychically trash the room, demand to know where Freeman is, then fly to wherever he is and kill him.

Yet.

‘Stanly?’

Freeman’s in charge.

Freeman won.

‘I’m surprised,’ I said.

‘Surprised?’