The Remnant E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

From the author of Perfecta Saxonia and The Runes Of Victory comes a riveting story of survival, adventure and second chances.

They were here millennia ago, and now they're back... to remedy an old mistake.

As humankind struggles with survival, an ancient race of creators sets in motion a plan that will define the future of Planet Earth. In the middle of it all are Mark and Charlotte: two teenagers oblivious to what is happening around them, or why they have been chosen.

Abducted and altered, the two soon become pawns in game beyond their comprehension. With the fate of the human race hanging in the balance, will they find their way to a new Garden Of Eden, or face complete annihilation?

Leseprobe

The Remnant

The Annunaki And The Apocalypse

John Broughton

Copyright (C) 2022 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Contents

Prologue

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

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About the Author

Prologue

Aboard the Annunaki mother ship NB46

The shimmering silvery light shone upon the specimen, depriving him of the typical flesh colour of his race and so modelling his features as to appear other than human. On the operating table under the pervasive overhead light, seventeen-year-old Mark Fisher from Grimsby in the United Kingdom was the subject of observation by an advanced race of whom he did not have any cognisance.

A long, pointed finger, the vestigial scales of which the reptilian creatures were so proud, caught the light and transformed it into the entire spectrum of colours, indicating the specimen. “I say that it is unethical to erase all of the creature’s memories.”

“Why?” replied Commander Ninki. “The human’s memories are mediocre. Even if we deprive him of his circle of friends and family, it will be no great loss. In exchange, he will receive benefits unimaginable to others of his race and create a future glorious and unimaginable to him and his kind. We have discussed this; it was decided in the Great Council of Nibiru after many years of debate. The all-wise Enki himself decreed that the only course of action to save the planet Earth, without the direct intervention of our people, was this, which we are embarked upon.”

Ninki’s yellow-barred eyes bored into those of his comrade, and he tilted his head, so that his hooked beak mask with its sharp point glinted in the light. “In the greater scheme of things, the erasure of the creature’s accumulated memories and their substitution is a matter of trifling importance. No doubt, his demise will be felt deeply by his parents, but his fragile race, which we genetically engineered, I might remind you, with all its virtues and defects, is used to grief. His procreators will not forget him, but all the others will have banished him from their thoughts within a short time. So, brethren, I insist, as your Commander, that we proceed with the operation.”

The Annunaki lifted the human’s head and encased it in a helmet of a light alloy lined with sensors. No cables connected the helm to the multiprocessor because the pulses emitted were captured by the screen, then stored and processed by the master board.

Every memory and incomplete thought stored in Mark Fisher’s brain transferred into the powerful computer in seconds, where they would be scrutinised, analysed and elaborated. Meanwhile, Mark was nourished artificially with nutrients that kept him alive and compensated for deficiencies in his diet before being beamed aboard the mother ship. His vegetative state depended entirely upon the neutralisation of his brain activity and could be likened by an earthling, inaccurately, to an induced coma.

“Commander, I still have scruples. I suggest we take the specimen to Nibiru to let the All-Wise decide on this ethical matter.”

“Come with me, Abzu. You will understand why that is impossible, and cease your prattling and insubordination, after you have seen what I wish to show you. Is the transfer complete, Nammu?”

“Yes, Commander. We await further instructions.”

“Excellent, take a break. We shall continue when I return.”

Commander Ninki led Abzu along the shiny corridor to the dragon blood wooden door of his command station. Three rapid spoken commands from Ninki and a screen demonstrated a document.

“As you can see, Abzu, these are my orders sealed by Enki himself; item three is specific, no time to be lost in effecting the mission,” he read and pointed a long, curved nail at the screen, “which means that there will be no time to return to Nibiru to question the All-Wise’s precise orders. Do you wish to set your face against Enki?” The cold reptilian eyes bored into the junior officer’s over the curved beak. The menace in them was uncompromising.

Abzu trembled, well aware of the awful fate others had encountered by provoking Ninki’s wrath.

“No, Commander, I do not wish to question your authority nor the wisdom of the All-Wise. Sometimes my scruples make me reason badly.”

“I can see you are penitent, so that is settled. We shall now proceed to reprogram the earthling. I will need your medical skills, Abzu, to make the transition perfectly smooth and so the specimen experiences no trauma.”

“I promise to do my best, Lord.” The shorter pointed beak mask that distinguished Abzu’s people from the southern polar region of Nibiru, bobbed up and down in a sign of obeisance, as Ninki was one of the mighty family of Enki, and, as such, among those who had saved their home planet from extinction with the gold from the Earth and other outlying planets thousands of years ago. They had been the ones to genetically engineer apelike creatures and transform them into slaves to mine the vitally-needed gold and transport it to the Nibiru reactors. The human beings created by the Annunaki were imperfect creatures. Their faults had now reached the stage where they threatened the destruction of their planet and the space surrounding it. The infallible Enki had decreed that the experiment would begin. One of the homo sapiens would correct the errors of his species after the remedial work on his body and brain. The only intervention of the Annunaki would be to condition the specimen to succeed alone in the future, without direct alien intervention.

ChapterOne

Two days earlier, over North-East Lincolnshire, the United Kingdom

Following the coordinates imposed by Enki, the alien spacecraft hovered over the woodland near the north-east coast of Lincolnshire. The alien mission was blessed by good fortune since an ideal specimen was sitting astride a strange contraption—their advanced devices revealed a means of transport known on the planet as a BMX bike. It also informed them that the subject was a healthy Caucasian male aged eighteen Earth years, thus placing him ideally within Enki’s parameters.

The aliens, therefore, had no hesitation in beaming the earthling aboard their space shuttle along with his bike, which they immediately consigned to a disintegrator. The youth, paralysed with fear, was taken to a restraining cell, where he could not self-harm. Gently encouraged to drink a potion, he slipped into a blissful, restorative sleep designed to fill him with positivity. Within moments, travelling at a speed unimaginable to homo sapiens, the shuttle reached the mother ship, stationed behind the Earth satellite, hence hidden from the prying telescopes that the primitive species used to peer out into the universe.

In his enhanced dream-state, Mark Fisher knew nothing of the docking and transfer to the most advanced vessel in the Annunaki fleet, ship NB46. Inside his head, he pictured the amiable two-legged, two-armed upright creatures with their delightful multi-coloured reflecting scales and curious beaked faces, who only wished him well. But not just well, his brain told him, they wanted to provide him with everything his heart desired. Their yellow slit eyes and strange variety of beaks, giving them a misleadingly reptilian appearance, should not induce him to fear them, his subservient brain persuaded him. After all, wasn’t his cousin Amber crazy about lizards? She nurtured basilisks, skinks, iguanas and geckos—her little dragons, she called them and adored them. Admittedly, they didn’t have bills, but it just showed how loveable reptiles could be.

All these soothing thoughts passed through Mark’s brain while, unknown to him, the aliens strapped him carefully to the table in the analysis laboratory. Within moments, each thought and memory in his brain was transferred via a helmet to the multiprocessor. Not only that but the rest of Mark’s brain, the dormant unused part, was subjected to analysis. So, momentarily, the Lincolnshire youth was brainless but not dead. Quite the opposite. His body had never felt so alive—just that he had no control over it. It would be fair to say that these were the moments that Mark Fisher ceased to exist as an entity.

(TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BEFORE)

Darren Fisher, appropriately to his name, a frozen fish processing operative, confirmed his earlier statement, this time to a detective sergeant, not a uniformed constable as earlier. Meanwhile, Betty, his wife of twenty-seven years, sat weeping into a handkerchief, comforted by a uniformed female officer.

“Our Mark goes to Weelsby Woods on his mountain bike every morning at dawn.”

“Why so early, sir?”

“Well, he says he likes the air to be pure, and it’s before the early-morning dog walkers get out on the trails. You see, it could cause a nasty accident, Detective Sergeant, at the speed our Mark rides. He always times himself. Only the other day, he told me that he wanted to break the twenty-minute barrier.”

“So, he always takes the same route?”

The sergeant appeared to Darren to be in his early thirties; the factory worker didn’t care much for the shaped sideburns, modishly cut across with parallel lines carefully shaved out, nor for the trendy short back and sides. To be sure, in his day, the army would have liked that, but it wouldn’t have stood for those sideburns. Darren vaguely registered the question and, after a brief hesitation, replied, “Oh, yeah. As I told that constable earlier, always the same course.”

“And do you know the route, sir?”

“Yeah, I do. I’ve walked it with our Mark and Jasper.”

“Jasper? Is that another son?”

“Ha-ha! No.” To the detective’s surprise, he let out a sharp whistle, and a Jack Russell terrier skidded across the parquet floor to sit looking from its owner to the police officer. “This is Jasper; he’s all right, he won’t hurt you. Not as long as you’re with me and not prowling around alone in his territory.”

The policeman looked sourly at the terrier; he preferred big dogs. His favourite breed, given the choice, was the golden retriever. His sister had one, an exceptional dog, Hoffman—named after the actor. DS Carlisle had often wondered why his sister hadn’t called the dog Dustin. Still, there was no accounting for taste. “So, sir, why don’t we take a walk through the woods, following Mark’s route? We can take Jasper for a walk—” At that word, the dog leapt and barked excitedly.

“Come on, let’s get your lead, boy!”

DS Carlisle checked his watch, considered what time the sun rose in this autumn season and decided that Mark Fisher had been missing for thirty hours. His preliminary questioning had not detected any reason for Mark to run away from his parents, to whom he seemed particularly attached, and his school report from the Lower Sixth, displayed with pride by his father, seemed to indicate that the lad’s Advanced-level courses were all proceeding very well. Mark had recently applied for and received an offer from the University of Nottingham, dependent on grades.

Thirty hours were not so many for a missing person’s case, Carlisle knew that, but he feared the worst, putting all the elements together. Something untoward had happened to Mark. DS Angus Carlisle felt sure that the young man had not done a runner. A walk along his route, especially with the family dog in tow to sniff out his young master, would reveal Mark if he had been injured and thrown into the undergrowth: or worse.

Onboard the alien craft, the Annunaki were busy. Their primary intention was to reverse the errors of genetic programming committed in Mesopotamia millennia ago. Thus, following Enki’s orders, they perfected the human specimen’s body and brain so that both would be an example of current Annunaki perfection in the field of genetic engineering. Having completed this work in an astonishingly brief time, thanks to the latest Nibirian technology incorporated into the multiprocessor, they set about providing Mark Fisher with new memories; in short, a completely new identity. They had furnished him with a new face, arising from the perfected genetic modifications, hence the earthling would be irresistible to the females of his species, but, following Enki’s orders, they had programmed his brain to resist all female overtures but for the allure of one woman in particular. Sexual attraction would not register in his consciousness except for her. He was also, not so much programmed, as mentally equipped to avoid other pitfalls that weak humanity had proved susceptible to over the ages: drugs, alcohol and other stimulants.

Much preparation time had been devoted to the Earthling Renewal Programme, as it was known on Nibiru. However, the All-Wise had renamed it Adam II,as a reminder of the earlier experiment and the importance of success this time around. Many interventions had been enacted on documentation and archives to create the total credibility of the subject over many years.

The aliens stood back to admire their handiwork. All that remained now was the erasure. That would have to be done aboard the shuttle. It was the stage where Angel’s brain—Enki had selected the name Angel Sirius for Adam Two—would be erased of all memory of the alien presence. A backpack they had provided, containing written material, was ready to help him when he entered his new home, for he was bound to be somewhat disorientated initially. The All-Wise preferred to leave his earthling in the familiar surroundings of his hometown, which they had incorporated into his new memory.

So, now, he would again walk the streets of Cleethorpes at the beginning of his new life. It would be a life destined to change the world, but all in good time. Enki had spoken of the prolonged lifespan of Angel Sirius as sufficient for the Renewal Programme. The All-Wise had hinted at a further debate after the deposition—that moment when the shuttle would deposit Angel Sirius in the back garden of his new home.

ChapterTwo

(The first day of a new life)

Under normal circumstances, Mark Fisher would have regained consciousness in a strange garden and asked himself why he was lying flat on the grass. But these were not normal circumstances, and he was not Mark Fisher; he was Angel Sirius, and he knew the garden and house were his. The only mystery that occurred to him was why he was lying outdoors on the grass. He sat up slowly, rubbed his head, noticed that he had a feeling of extreme wellbeing coursing through his veins and an inexplicable sense of happiness. Why the latter should be the case, at the moment, he could not explain. He sprang to his feet, snatched up his backpack and groped in his pocket for the key ring.

Entering the back door, he stared at the familiar objects with the strange sensation that he could not recall buying them, but with a certainty that they were his. He paused at the mirror in the hallway and stared at the handsome features grinning back at him. He turned his head slightly to check on the stubble on his chin—not bad for an eighteen-year-old, he told himself. He pulled his blond fringe from over his eyes and considered a change of hairstyle. He would have to chat with his barber, maybe he could suggest something more suited to his perfect oval face.

He went to the fridge, where he took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water, his favourite drink. Sitting at the table, he wondered what to do. His brain told him there was an urgent project on the back burner, but what was it? It wasn’t school or university. He pursed his lips, certain that with sufficient effort, he would recall it. But as he sipped his water, nothing occurred to him. His eye settled on the rucksack. He didn’t remember packing it so, with some curiosity, he unbuckled it, then unlaced the bow of the drawstring. Inside was a photograph album. It contained prints of himself as a boy, a small, cheerful-looking scamp, playing with a football in the garden, probably of this house. He turned the page and there was a pretty woman, his mother, cuddling him in an armchair. She had wavy, auburn hair that fell over her shoulder. In the next photo, a man, his father, was tackling him to win the football on the grass. His father was tall and athletic-looking in the photo.

The next page contained the bombshell. It was a newspaper cutting: a road accident had happened on the Laceby bypass years ago. A drunken van driver had invaded the lane occupied by the Sirius’s Opel estate car, killing husband and wife instantly. The young boy, Angel, aged four, had been belted into his back seat and survived the crash, physically unscathed. The van driver responsible for the accident had died, too, but a high level of alcohol had been found in his blood, post-mortem—way over the legal limit. The report stated that young Angel would be taken into council care as he had no close relatives in the county. The next photo showed a pleasant suburban house that must have blended perfectly with the neighbouring properties. In other words, nothing marked it out as a council-owned children’s care home.

Angel remembered the other four occupants of various ages in care like him. They had become his friends: Marcus, Amanda, Alan, and Frances. Of course, he had left the house on Gloria Way right after his GCSEs. At nearly seventeen, the Social Services couldn’t prevent him from striking out on his own. The first thing he had done was to reclaim the family home and redecorate. Now he remembered! It also came to mind what he had planned for this week ahead. Before he thought about that, he needed to check the envelope with his exam results inside. He knew he had done well, but even he did a double-take when he saw that he had obtained A-grades in all ten subjects. Was he a genius then? Why wasn’t he intent on an academic career, in that case? Undoubtedly, the next stage would be to sit some Advanced-level exams.

Why didn’t he want to do that? He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought hard. That was it! He had always wanted to be a professional footballer—and why not? He knew that he was the most talented footballer who had ever lived. This conviction was in his head, nowhere else. There was no proof that he could think of.

Snatching up the album again, he rifled through the pages but found nothing that told him he had had a brilliant career in any team at any level. Despite this, he knew that he was superior to anyone else at that sport. He rummaged through the rucksack and almost missed the envelope. He took it out, read the neat handwriting in perfect script, written in an archaic style. The two words, Angel Sirius,leapt out at him. He stood up, feeling energetic: he would have to go for a run soon. Striding over to the dresser, he pulled open a cutlery drawer to select a knife to slit the envelope open. That done, eagerly, he read:

Dear Angel,

You will be asking yourself who wrote this letter. It doesn’t matter; let’s say that it’s from a well-wisher who knows you better than anyone else in the world. Now that you are settled back home, you must enter your chosen profession. Leave no one in doubt that you are the best at it anywhere on Earth. Dedicate yourself entirely to it, single-mindedly, but never forget to be humble and to accumulate as much knowledge about the planet around you as you can.

My very best wishes, dear Angel – remember that your life is an ongoing mission. Never lose sight of that concept. But for now, go out and enjoy yourself.

Best Wishes,

Nammu

Angel replaced the letter in its envelope. Who was the mysterious Nammu? Why hadn’t they declared their relationship to him? Still, the words seared into his brain as if they were some Gospel: they tallied absolutely with his desires and convictions. But now he must go upstairs to change into a tracksuit and running shoes.

Outside, he set off at a remarkable pace, reaching the main Clee Road, which he recalled ended at a roundabout, which would take him down Grimsby Road towards the twin-town of that name. As his sweatshirt grew damp and clung to his muscular chest, he failed to notice the admiring glances of female shoppers. Instead, he concentrated on the wonderful sensation of his perfectly coordinated limbs carrying him along the footpath at a remarkably brisk pace. He didn’t feel any deficit of lactic acid; instead, his speed increased slightly, whereas another runner would be slowing at this stage. He noticed the floodlights towering over the buildings across the road to his right. Blundell Park, the home of the local football team, Grimsby Town FC, sadly recently relegated from the Football League, but now proudly ensconced at the top of the Conference Premier League.

He slowed to a walk, crossed the road and walked down Blundell Avenue. The black and white painted exterior in the club’s colours with red trimmings pleased him, but he asked himself, If I am the best footballer in the world, should I start in such a lowly club? The answer came in a flash as if implanted in his brain, which it was. Of course, he would take Grimsby Town back from nowhere to the very pinnacle of English football.

But how? He had no football curriculum: nothing! All he had was the brazen certainty that he could do anything that he liked with a football and that he was the fittest man in the country. How did he know these things? He knew because his head told him so. For now, he needed to run home and shower. Then, he would go out to buy the best set of football boots that he could afford. Now that was a point. Money? Did he have any? Of course he did, he was rich! He knew that—his head told him so. Still, he didn’t have any money to hand. He would need to search his house.

He raced back home, unlocked the front door and grabbed the rucksack, somehow knowing that the answer would be there. It was. Previously, he hadn’t checked the side pockets of the bag. That was the first thing he did. He found a current passport with his photograph, issued just one year ago and valid for ten years, inside one. In another pocket, he found a wallet, and it contained a medical card, credit and debit cards, plus many banknotes totalling six hundred and fifty-five pounds. So, no problem as far as football boots were concerned. What about food? He checked the fridge-freezer. The freezer was crammed with food, essentially ready-made meals that just needed heating. Funny, he couldn’t remember stocking up. Strange how he was only remembering things as he went along, as if he had suffered amnesia and was now awakening memories piecemeal. For example, he now knew which bank his cards belonged to. If anyone had asked him ten minutes ago, he would not have been able to answer, but strangely, he had known all along!

“So, what’s the plan, Angel?” he asked aloud. “I should get the boots, call into the bank to see how my funds are, then find out what I can about the football club. And what about transport? There’s no driving licence in my wallet. I can’t run everywhere. Damn it! The other pockets of the rucksack are empty. I don’t have a phone, either.” He walked into the hallway, stared at the mirror. “Right,” he told himself in the looking glass, “first, the barber’s then the bank, then a mobile phone, then the boots.”

A worrying thought struck him; maybe there were lots of bills to pay. Why couldn’t he remember? A bank statement might help with that. No phone meant no taxi, so public transport would have to do. He took a bus to what the locals called the top town and strolled into the barber’s shop.

“Hello, Mr Gregory,” he called cheerfully, but the young barber stared at him, open-mouthed.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that Mr Gregory died about ten years ago. Have you been abroad or something?”

Angel frowned; he remembered coming in here as a little boy and liking the affable proprietor. He had wrongly assumed this to be his son. “Abroad? Yeah,” he lied; it was easier than explaining his time in child care. “I was in New Zealand for fourteen years. I just assumed you were the younger Gregory.”

“Strange coincidence that, mate.”

“What?”

“Daniel Gregory sold up here after his dad died and emigrated to New Zealand. I wonder you didn’t bump into him.”

“You’re joking. It’s a big country.”

“And what did you do out there?”

“I studied. I’m only eighteen.”

“So, what did your dad do?”

“Marine engineer.”

Luckily for Angel, the barber’s curiosity ended there before he got into deep water. The young man knew his trade, though, and Angel left the premises with a trendy cut, short all the way round, but longer on top. It suited his oval face to perfection and drew even more appraising looks from the opposite sex. He tended not to meet their eyes and failed to respond to provocative smiles.

He also received a friendly smile from a bank clerk, especially when he told her his name.

“Right away, sir,” she replied when he asked for a printout of his bank statement. He blinked hard when she slid it to him under the glass screen.

“Two hundred thousand pounds? Isn’t that rather a lot for a current account?”

“It would be, sir, but don’t forget that you have three investment portfolios, each with a considerable amount invested. Don’t you use our online app?”

“I must download it. The fact is that I inadvertently destroyed my phone. I must get a new iPhone today.”

“Then you’ll be able to check the state of your accounts from home, without coming in specially. Try Diamond Media on Grimsby Road. I always go there for my phones, and I update them regularly.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He headed out of the bank feeling a mixture of foolishness and confusion. He had known inherently that he was well-off, but had no idea about the portfolios. He wondered how much they contained. Where had the money come from? Was it to do with the fatal accident? Had he inherited an insurance pay-out and had somebody invested it on his behalf? After all, he had been a minor until a few weeks ago. Straight in and out of the shop, without dithering, he bought the latest model of iPhone using his debit card: no problem about paying for it. When he got home, he’d download the app and study his bank statement. He didn’t want problems with things like outstanding council tax on the building. Possessing three portfolios suggested he was wealthy rather than comfortably off. Besides, he only had himself to care for. Everyday expenses shouldn’t add up to so much for a single man without any bad habits such as gambling.

As he rode home on the bus, Angel Sirius did some careful thinking. There was a growing list of priorities. First, he needed to sort out his future by going to the football ground. He needed to find out when the Reserve team trained. Well, now he had a mobile, he could phone the stadium and ask. He’d been able to choose a provider and activate the line in the shop. How come he didn’t have a phone before today? There were so many gaps in his memory; or rather, no gaps, because the memories were there. He smiled wryly; his brain was like a phone with no sim card. Once he activated the memories, they were there all right.

He remembered his bus stop perfectly well and the way home from there. Inside the house, he downloaded the bank app and soon understood how to navigate it using the provider. To his amazement, his bank statement showed a regular direct debit for his council tax. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t recall organising that. Equally perplexing was the satellite TV debit. When had he done that? There were no hire-purchase repayments on the new furniture, either.

“For Heaven’s sake, it’s like a fairy godmother waved a magic wand in this house,” he said to the Wilton stair carpet. The burgundy leather three-piece suite in the lounge must have cost a pretty penny. Why wouldn’t those memories reactivate? Did he have—no! Fairy godmothers didn’t exist!

He rang Grimsby Town Football Club and got through to a polite switchboard operator, who told him what he wanted to know. The following afternoon at three o’clock, the Reserves would have a training session, except it wasn’t open to the public. They played in the Central League. He would find out about them online since his phone had wi-fi, and he could see that there was a router next to the TV. He spent the best part of an hour searching for a password until he had the idea to look on the underside of the router where the password was printed. Having connected to that, he discovered that the Grimsby Reserves had beaten their Scunthorpe counterparts 2-1 in their last derby outing.

His idea was to gain admittance to the club at that level, then force his way into the first team on merit. After all, he was convinced that he was the best player in the world.

Only a few streets away and at about this time, Darren Fisher, on compassionate leave from work, comforted Betty. “Look at it this way, darling: the boy can’t have disappeared into thin air. There was no trace of him or his bike on his usual route.”

“But don’t they say that the longer a person is missing, the more likely—” her voice choked, and she sobbed.

“Every case is different, Bet, love. He held her tightly. “Our Mark’s a bright lad. There’ll be some explanation, and he’ll be all right, I’m telling you.”

She sniffed and nodded against his broad chest. “He’s alive. I can feel it. Mothers know these things. But why doesn’t he get in touch? It’s not like my son.”

“As I said, it’ll all come out in the wash, you’ll see.”

She nodded again, forced herself to back away, looked into her husband’s concerned eyes and managed a weak smile for him. She knew that he was suffering, too.

ChapterThree

(The following day)

Angel decided to continue organising his life, so he found a driving school in the morning and booked a series of lessons. The secretary at the school was keen to help such a good-looking young man and had him fill out the forms to obtain a provisional driving licence. His first lesson would be the following week on Tuesday at ten o’clock. She seemed to think it amusing that Angel had never driven before and made a sassy joke about him being a virgin. Since he didn’t react at all, she assumed that he was shy because of his youth. Not even Angel knew that his lack of reaction was due to the alien programming of his brain.

He paid attention to the models of cars that drove past and decided that his first car shouldn’t be flashy or too powerful. A small SUV would serve his purposes, but he was getting ahead of himself. First, he would have to pass his test. A bright red Nissan Qashqai caught his eye. That will do very nicely, he thought. The other footballers won’t be jealous.

But again, he was too far ahead of himself. His half-past two visit to Blundell Park didn’t go at all to plan. First, the gatekeeper refused to grant him admittance.

“Is the coach expecting you, mate?”

“I’ve come for a trial with the Reserve team.”

“So, you’ve got an appointment, then?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but—”

The gatekeeper was closing the door when Angel yanked it open.

“Here, what’s your game? I can’t let you in without an appointment; it’s more than my job’s worth.”

For one mad moment, Angel thought of forcing his way past the middle-aged man, whose flat cap covered a seriously receding hairline. Realising that such an action would earn him no favours, he said politely, “Sorry, I don’t know how things work here. How do I get a trial with the Reserves?”

The gatekeeper’s leathery face broke into a gap-toothed grin. “You can’t just turn up and ask for a trial, kid. You’ll need to be recommended by your coach. And even that’s no guarantee of getting one.

Angel’s heart sank. He didn’t have a coach; indeed, he’d never played for a team, but he knew he was the best. He couldn’t resist: “But, mister, I’m a special talent.”

“Aye, they all say that!” The man’s sarcastic grin was countered by such a look of abject misery that he felt sorry for the youth. His wheezing breath suggested a heavy smoker, as did his harsh voice.

“Tell you what, why don’t I ring through to Matt Varney? He’s the Reserves trainer.” He winked and added, “You wait there, there’s a good lad.”

Angel pressed an ear to the now-closed door and heard the man say, “Yeah, a special talent,” then his laugh turned into a bout of coughing. Straining to hear more and failing, Angel gave up and resigned himself to hoping and waiting. Several interminable minutes went by until, at last, the gate opened, and the wheezing voice suggested, “You’d better come in, then, mate. Matt’s on his way down, but be warned, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You mind your p’s and q’s, kiddo.”

“Yeah, alright, thanks.”

A man in a black tracksuit, wearing red and white baseball boots, jogged over to them. His nose, broken and reset badly, gave him a belligerent appearance, but Angel wasn’t about to judge him on appearances. Fortified by the gatekeeper’s warning, he said, “Mr Varney, thank you for your time. I know that coming without an appointment is irregular, but you see, I’ve only just got over from New Zealand, and I don’t have a team here. But everyone in Wellington said I was a special talent,” he boldly lied.

“What do they know? They play with funny-shaped balls down there.” The coach grinned at the gatekeeper, who obliged with a laugh at the joke, followed by a coughing fit.

“Let him be a lesson to you. Never be tempted to smoke, young fellow.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that! I don’t drink alcohol, either.”

“Good thinking, old son,” said the coach. “Well, do you have written references, at least?”

“Well, yeah, I do,” Angel lied again. “If you like, I can run home and get them. I just thought you’d like to see me in action.”

“I’m a busy man,” Varney glanced at his watch, “I’ve got training in twenty minutes. I can’t be picking up waifs and strays from the street and laying on special matches to test their quality. Go on, clear off, and get yourself into some local team. If you’re as good as you say you are, which I doubt, quite frankly, you’ll soon stand out. Then, maybe, I’ll give you a chance.” Matt Varney winked at the gatekeeper and said, “Make sure this bighead doesn’t loiter on private property.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey! You’re making a big mistake, Coach. I’m a better player than anyone in your first team. When they find out that you turned Angel Sirius away, you’ll cut a sorry figure.”

The busy coach stopped dead in his tracks and turned. “Angel Sirius, what kind of a name’s that, then? It’s not from the Nunsthorpe Estate, I’ll bet.”

For reasons unknown to Angel, this witty comment amused the heavy smoker because it set him off coughing again.

“No, I’m from Cleethorpes, Coach.”

“Oh, that’s convenient for you,” came the sarcastic reply, “so, when you’re our star first-teamer, you’ll be able to walk in for matches.”

“Well, I can run here in six minutes from the end of Davenport Drive.”

“Like hell you can! Nobody can run it that fast! You’re a boastful little erk, aren’t you?”

Angel stared hard at the coach with such a look of determination on his face that the man’s resolve wavered.

“What position do you play, Sirius? Have you got kit with you?” He stared meaningfully at Angel’s backpack.”

“Attacking midfield, and, yes, I have.”

“Come on, then, you’d better be as good as you say you are because I’m going to have Chopper Bradshaw mark you. He’ll soon cut you down to size.”

“Blimey, not Chopper!” the gatekeeper gasped. “You’d better look out, my lad, else you’ll leave here on crutches!”

“Thank you, Coach Varney.”

“Ha-ha! That’s a good one—no one’s ever thanked me for setting Chopper on them. Come on, this way!”

The coach led Angel into a noisy dressing room, where the banter and laughter had reached a deafening number of decibels.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” bellowed Varney. “Just ’cause you fluked a win over scummy Scunny doesn’t give you the right to carry on like demented banshees! Now, listen up, this here is Sirius—”

“Isn’t Sirius a star, boss?” a muscular player asked, before bending to straighten his shin pads.

“Aye, that’s what he says he is. It’s your job to prove that he is or isn’t the special talent he claims to be. Chopper, you’ll be marking him ’cause he’ll be in advanced midfield. Thirty minutes each way, six a side. Chopper, pick your five teammates; the rest are with Sirius. Well, don’t just stand there lad. Get your kit on.”

No sooner had Sirius laced up his boots than the coach handed out green bibs to Chopper’s team. “You lot can wear red.”

He threw the red bibs, one by one, to the eager hands of Angel’s companions. The youngster caught his and pulled it on in one deft movement, his heart thumping at the thought of showing everyone what he could do. A tall, well-built player came over to him with a friendly grin and a proffered hand. “I’m Kevin Walsh, striker. What’s your first name, Sirius?”

“Angel. Pleased to meet you.”

“Angel Sirius? That’s a name that sticks in the mind. Well, listen, Angel, you just slide the ball through a yard ahead of me, and I’ll stick in the net, right? I don’t want it tangling straight into my feet, got it? Not too far ahead, mind, else those dumb defenders will mop it up straight away. Oops, come on, that’s old man Varney blowing a fuse; we’re the last left. Good luck, mate!”

The match was only two minutes old when Angel received the ball in midfield. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chopper Bradshaw hurtling in then flying through the air, leg outstretched and studs up. If ever a leg-breaking tackle had been made on the Blundell Park turf, this was the archetype. The other players and the onlooking coach were impressed not so much by the evasion, as the way the midfielder jumped with the ball still under perfect control. Bradshaw slid harmlessly past, swearing death and destruction, and Angel was away, jinking past a defender and sliding an inch-perfect pass through to the dark-haired Walsh, who drove it high and hard into the net.

“I keep telling them, all I need is a decent midfielder behind me,” he said as he embraced Angel. “They’ve got me down as a crap striker.”

“That was a great goal, Kevin.”

“You can call me Kev. Let’s do it again!”

The new lad’s energy most impressed Coach Varney; the boy ran and ran, tackled back and always won the ball cleanly. Varney wondered whether he was scooting around the pitch on adrenaline. The second half would reveal all. In his long career as a coach, he’d seen it all before, enthusiasm fizzling out like a damp two-penny banger. As it was, the young fellow had undeniable talent, far too much for those around him, who the coach considered a right hopeless shower. Again, a thoughtful ball, switching to the other wing, ran wastefully into touch as the wing-back showed zero anticipation.

“This boy’s the real deal,” the coach muttered, glancing at his watch. “Maybe he isn’t just a boaster. Good job I gave him a chance. If he holds up in the second half, I’ll call him for the match on Saturday.”

He blew his whistle for a bad foul on Walsh just outside the penalty area, a little to the right, about twenty-five yards out. Sirius grabbed the ball and carried it over to place it where the coach indicated. Three tall defenders formed a barrier after Varney had made them retreat the correct distance. The yellow-shirted goalkeeper waved his large, gloved hand to position the wall better. Varney blew, Angel took three steps, and the ball streaked over the barrier and dipped viciously into the net past the bewildered goalkeeper. Green-bibbed players mobbed Angel; none of them had seen anything quite like that kick.

“Better than Beckham!” Walsh grinned. “Come on, lads, concentrate. We can win this!”

Angel felt happy and confident but had noticed the evil leer on Bradshaw’s face. Still, he didn’t expect to be tackled from behind whilst he was off the ball. He had just played a pass out to the right wing when Chopper, in a stunning display of footballing disloyalty, clattered into his right ankle. A player with a typical physique might have been side-lined for months. Angel didn’t want to draw too much attention to the abnormal strength of his flesh, which he intuitively recognised, so he rolled around clutching his ankle.

Walsh came over. “You alright, Angel?” He patted him on the head, turned to the coach. “That’s a straight red in anyone’s book, Coach.”

“I didn’t see it; I was watching you head that bloody good cross wide, Walshy. How did you see it, anyway? Have you got eyes in the back of your head?”

“It wasn’t a good cross; it was too high and too slow. What about our man?”

“Run over and fetch the doc, Walshy, there’s a good lad. As for you, Chopper, you bloody numbskull, I told you to mark him, not to break his ankle. We’re all in the same team here, even if we play against each other. Remember that! Are you alright, son?” The coach bent over Angel, concern in his eyes.

“I think I can stand, Coach.”

A firm hand pressed him down. “Not until the doc’s had a look at it. Ah, here he is!”