The

Hat
Never
Comes
Off
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 Introduction

Greetings Reader!

What follows are the results of ten weeks of devoted hard work
by the hands of 12 eager and talented young writers between
the ages of twelve and sixteen during the Summer of 2008.

During their participation in the workshops, it has been my

privilege to see them grow from the first tentative scribblings
on a blank page to the confident and skilled scribes they have
now become.

They have not only reinvented their own approaches to writing,

from planning and narrative control, to editing and seeing a
project through to the end, but have also invigorated my own
writing style.

They have shown perserverence, originality and an unrivalled

capacity to imagine that has become more and more rare in
the present day.

The pleasure has been all mine.

Sam Dagnall
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 Contents
“Another Fairytale” by Emma Rizkallah Page 4
“Mysteries of a Broken Heart” by Emma Darby Page 10
“Green Soul” by Emerald Kenny Page 13
“Scarcely Credible” by Christopher Tavener Page 22
“Molly at Madcap Manor” by Lucie Fellows Page 36
“The Voyage” by Bethany Wood Page 38
“Silver’s Not Good Enough” by Joseph Palin Page 42
“Detective Denzel and the Case of the Malicious
Marrow” by Carl Mackintosh-Rogers Page 47
“Antboy” by Matthew Nowell Page 50
“Silver Skin” by Simon James Page 51
“False Start” by Amy Acton Page 90
“In The Dark” by Claire Heine Page 94

All stories © The Author

6
 Another Fairytale
by Emma Rizkallah

There is a woman at the window. She is old, and the grey light diffusing
through the panes highlights the white in her hair and casts shadows over
her wrinkled skin. Short but still upright, her hands are the only part of her
body that is twitching, fingers twisting and clasping together in an agony of
tortured movement. In fact, they are the only disturbance in the whole
room; not a shudder causes her pale pastel clothes to shiver like the skin
of a wounded animal, abused beyond caring, or her carefully restrained
hair to escape from its binding chains and float free in the air. But it is her
eyes that provide the only link between the outside world and her inner
dream; those eyes, as grey as an oncoming storm cloud, are staring
fixedly at a point on the opposite side of the glass, with such intensity in
their gaze that anyone seeing them would know that they wouldn’t be
wrenched away from that obscure point for all the world… as if they were
so terrified of looking away, that nothing in existence could force them to
look away.

The view out of her window will perhaps hold some clue to her
distraction. A row of houses, opposite and below her, is followed by
another row of houses behind it, and another behind that, and another and
another and so on into the horizon; all identical, bereft of individuality, free
to languish in their oppressive monotony like so many statues from the
same mould. Cars kick their heels on the pavement outside, the vast
majority “silver” and modestly similar, with no garden holding more artistic
expression than a neatly mown lawn and the occasional bedraggled plant.
Flooded with a wash of cloud, the grey sky relinquishes its boundless
reservoir of water onto the empty streets below in a continuous stream of
fine, eternal rain. There is a faint rumble of traffic in the distance, but other
than that no noise disturbs the silent drumming of rain on the identical
rooftops of the identical houses throughout that entire suburb.
7
 “Mother.”
Another woman has entered the room: a younger woman, clothed
entirely in black. She hurries over to the woman that must be her mother
and stops suddenly beside her, peering anxiously at the stony eyes
opposite. Her eyes, warm and brown, fill with tears as the pupils dart
worriedly over that pale, white face.
“Mother –”
The Mother takes a sudden breath as a sharp noise splits the scene
like a dagger through a sheet of ice: the siren of an ambulance, hurrying
ever closer to its destination. The two women wait, watching through the
window, until the ambulance appears in the street below them, stopping at
their door. The mother’s breaths turn to sobs and the daughter gently
holds her arms, rubbing them.

“It will be all right,” the daughter whispers into her ear, almost as if
she believes what she says, “It will be all right.”

“Will it?” the mother asks, turning her head to face her daughter. Her
eyes are shining with the knowledge of a hope dead long ago and her
voice shakes with the admission of it as she speaks. The daughter,
bewildered in the face of such fear, simply shakes her head in sorrow and
confusion as she draws her mother closer into a tight hug.

Downstairs, all is still. Plates and cutlery for three are laid out on a
small wooden table, the flowers in the vase at their centre the only spot of
colour in the darkening room. The grey light from the outside world is
hindered by the barriers of curtains that have been thrown against the
windows, as if to hide the horror of what lies in the stillness behind them.
Chairs are scraped back, abandoned, vegetables left half-chopped in the
kitchen, mud stamped into the once clean carpet – mud, and something
much, much worse. Something red and liquid that drips like drool out of
the mouth of a dog from the old man sitting frozen on the leather sofa, an
expression of surprise permanently etched onto his pale, white face, a
mask of incredulous fear.

It is blood, seeping into the carpet, dribbling slowly down from the
handle of the knife sticking vertically out from his chest.

“Shall I tell you a bedtime story?”

The mother is now standing further away from but still facing her
daughter, her smiling, expectant face half-lit in the drab light from the
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window. Eyebrows bending in confusion, the daughter blinks, surprised
and startled by this sudden change. However, the mother sees none of
this; in front of her eyes, a vision of a much younger daughter smiles and
nods fervently up at her from the mass of white fluffy pillow, and she
smiles back as she crouches down to stroke her hair.

“However, this is a very special story,” she whispers to both

daughters, past and present. “It’s so special, that Mummy doesn’t know
what happens at the end. Instead, I need you to decide on the perfect
ending for the story.”
“Ok,” the older daughter replies, her frightened voice barely louder
than a distant sigh of wind. “Ok.”

The mother smiles, not hearing her daughter’s hesitant reply but
responding instead to her imaginary daughter’s unspoken one, and begins
the story as so many mothers have since the first daughters were brought
in existence.

“Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a King, a Queen,
and a Princess.”

Nodding gently, the daughter steers her mother into a nearby chair,
and drags one over for herself. She has no idea what is happening any
more, or why her mother is acting so strangely; all she can do is listen in
the hope that this abstraction of mind in her mother is only temporary. And
wait for the police to arrive.

“The King and the Queen ruled over a large, happy land, treating
their subjects fairly and justly. Their golden reign lasted many years, and
soon their joy was increased by the birth of their little Princess. But this
state of bliss could not last…

“During a time when the Princess had been sent to stay with her
relations in a neighbouring land, a Witch moved into the surrounding area
and laid siege on the kingdom. She caused many bad things to happen:
droughts, famines, putrid diseases that infected many thousands of people
– but there was one thing she did that, to me, was the worst of all.
Disguising herself as a beautiful woman, she cast a spell on the King to
make him fall in love with her and only her.”

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 The daughter’s face turns with shock. She has never been told
anything about an affair – could it be real – is her mother telling the truth –
does this explain –
“The King abandoned his kingdom and his duties as ruler, leaving
the land to fall into a violent pit of ruin and despair. Worse still, he left his
Queen all alone in the castle, with no one to look after her, while he spent
day after day with the Witch, buying her expensive presents, showering
her with jewels, silks and gold, and riding about with her in the finest
chariot his craftsmen could make. And all the while, the Queen sat in the
castle, all, all alone.

“A month passed, and to her surprise, the Queen had a visitor. It

was Sir Lancelot, the bravest knight in the whole kingdom, who had
defeated the dragon and many other fearsome monsters and had even
once been the King’s personal advisor – but since the Witch had
appeared, he had been thrown from the King’s presence, and he had
come to the castle to seek the Queen’s advice on how to save the King.
But the Queen had seen the spell the Witch had laid on her husband
whilst he was still living in the castle, and knew that there was no hope.
So, downhearted and forlorn, Sir Lancelot stayed in the castle to keep the
Queen company.

“Maybe it was fate, or maybe it was just inevitable; either way, Sir
Lancelot and the Queen fell in love. This affair could have occurred then
passed into the mists of time without a second thought if nothing had ever
come of it, but, sadly, that was not the case. The time soon came when
the Queen fell pregnant, with Sir Lancelot’s child.”

Mouth gaping, the daughter stares at the figure opposite. Her

mother could not, would not lie about such a thing. But that leaves two
questions hideously unanswered in her mind…

Who was Sir Lancelot? And why has she never been told anything
about the child?

“From time to time, the King would return to his castle to take money
from his royal coffers to buy presents for his increasingly demanding
Witch. And of course, it was inevitable that he should choose to come
when the Queen had just gone into labour.”

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 The vision of the young daughter is swimming before the mother’s
eyes, morphing into memories hazy with more pain that any one human
could ever stand.

“The King – the King saw what had happened with Sir Lancelot and
the Queen, and flew into a violent rage. Snarling hideously like some wild
animal, he pounded down the stairs to the kitchens, pursued by Sir
Lancelot, snatched up a knife that had been left lying there by some
careless servant and – and – Sir Lancelot came charging down the stairs
after him, but he was running too fast and he – with the knife, the King –
stabbed –” The mother stops for a moment, overcome. But time has
presented this pain to her many, many times, and so, she is able to
continue her tale before the daughter even has time to comfort her.

“Then, the King dashed back up the stairs and into the chamber
where his wife lay, delirious with pain and suffering, and with one savage
cry he – he threw the knife – and it hit – it hit – my baby –”

Tears begin to roll down the mother’s cheeks, as one hand

massages her stomach. The daughter’s face turns as pale as death itself,
and she stares with broken eyes at her mother, seeing the pain that time
and memory has ravaged across that dear face.
“You see,” the mother says between sobs, “the Witch’s spell had
finally succeeded. It had taken the good, strong heart of the King and
withered it, blackened it, changing him into a being more suited to evil
than to good. It had turned the King into a monster.”

Sobs echo from the daughter’s mouth as she cries for the sibling
she never knew she had lost. But the mother now cries silently, vision lost
in the mist of the past. There is a little pause as tears stream from their
eyes, until eventually, the streams run dry, and the mother resumes
talking.

“Time passed, as it always will. The Queen cried more tears than
she had known existed, the King returned to his Witch to think no more of
anything other than her, and the Princess remained hidden in another land
far, far away. But then, another King came, a far richer king than our King
had ever been. The Witch saw this, and cast a spell over him, rendering
him as deeply in love with her as our King was. She left our King, without
so much as a word of goodbye, and went with the rich king to seek fortune
in another land far from here… and the King raged in her absence, as all
abandoned lovers do.
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 “Once his rage had dissipated, however, another feeling set in.

Loneliness seeped into his mind and being, filling him with a restlessness
that could not be ignored or removed. He staggered around what he had
once had the right to call his land in a haze of drunkenness and anger,
until, downtrodden and resentful of all the world, he returned to the Queen,
who took him in. He had neither repented of his actions nor promised
better times to come, and yet she took him anyway, for reasons few could
understand – not love or want or need, or hope or forgiveness or any
feeling so noble or base; simply because she had been his Queen for so
long, she did not know how to exist without him. And so she took him, and
they lived together for many years, without so much as a glimpse of joy or
happiness in their lives.

“The Princess had never been told anything about the Witch or Sir
Lancelot or any incident other than the normal and mundane, and so when
she returned, she was not surprised at her parents’ living together. Nothing
more than happy at being in the place of her birth, she took over the
kingdom her parents had long since forgotten about and brought it back
into law and order, establishing peace, justice and happiness over all that
land. And not only that; her presence brought the long-faded sunshine
back into the Queen’s life, reminding her of the better feelings that had not
gripped her for years on end. Whenever the Princess was present, the
Queen felt younger, as if time fell away, and the Witch had never appeared
in their lives; but when the Princess went out to rule the kingdom, or even
left the room, all this faded, to be replaced by the numbing greyness that
had for so long diffused her entire life.

“But this could not last. The Queen had gained a taste of happiness,
and every time the dullness seeped back into her world, she knew that
she could not stand it for even another second. She knew, every time the
Princess left her, that something would have to change.”

The room is perfectly silent, not even a breath disturbing the frozen
air.

“And one day, she snapped.”

A siren blares in the street outside, as the police arrive on their

doorstep.

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 “So,” the mother asks, wide eyes staring straight at her true
daughter, “how do you think the story ends?”

“I don’t know, Mother,” the daughter sobs, holding one hand up to

her face as if to hold the tears back, “I don’t know.”

“Does the Princess rescue the Queen? Does Sir Lancelot rise from
the dead to save her? Or do the Witch’s henchmen capture her and put
her to death?”

The daughter is shaking her head, her whole body racked with
sobs.

“You said it would be all right,” the mother says with a smile,
stretching out her arms to her daughter, “so it will. It will be all right.”

Footsteps are tramping up the stairs, more sirens are blaring and
the rain still drums steadily on the rooftops as the daughter leans forward
to place her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“Will it?” she whispers. “Will it?”

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 Mysteries of a Broken Heart
by Emma Darby

“Hello, I err I’m here to see my mother Catherine tally “I said to the officer
nervously.

I was shaking uncontrollably,” visiting room 1 table 6, the door to your left
“he said sternly. He was rather scary; scarier than being in the prison.

I was thinking about what I was going to say & how to act, I hadn’t seen
her since I was 13! My heart was racing, I looked up at the door and it was
plain and red rather boring I thought as I stepped through.

I walked down the aisles of tables taking my time and counting the tables
as I went by, 3,4,5,6! I looked up, “mum? “, I asked warily.

She had changed! I no longer saw the special smile that we shared but a
different face old and well worn, it shocked me I thought she would still
look like … well my mum.

“Sandrine, I never thought you would visit how are you?” my mum asked
me – even her voice had changed.

“Well I never knew that you were in prison, I’m a bit stuck, but I’ll manage,
how are you? Stuck in here, how did you manage that? “, I asked trying to
act intrigued.

“ I’m a bit embarrassed really I was a bit skint so I tried to rob the local
post office … and well it didn’t go down too well”, she paused” everything’s
good apart from being in prison” she chuckled, as though prison was a
holiday camp. This made me angry; she wasn’t even bothered.
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This was news to me the letter telling me that she was in prison had said
she had stabbed someone when she was drunk, there must have been
some sort of error in the letter.
“Visiting hours are over”, A burly prison guard yelled.
“Bye mum, I’ll come and visit soon”, I said sadly.

“Bye love, make sure you do eh? “, she said and winked.

Blinking away I reluctantly returned home in my horrible car; even the

scrap yard didn’t want it. I smiled sadly, I knew I wasn’t going to see her
again, she wasn’t my mother. Who am I kidding? Did I really think that I’d
ever find her?
How did she know my name?

I wondered as I turned on the heating in my scabby apartment, I decided

to call John (my best friend), and before you ask no, we aren’t going out-
it’s what everyone asks. He would know what to do. ”brrr, brrr”, I could
hear his phone ringing.

“Hello?” John asked

“Hi John, guess who!” I beamed back at him

“Hi Sandrine, how did your visit go?”

“Actually that’s why I rung, I don’t think that she’s my mother but I think
she might know where my mum is, how else would she know my name?”

“Come on Sandrine, how many times have you done this? She’s just after
your money!”he accused her.

“No, I think you’re wrong why would she go after my money, I don’t have
any.”

“Fine do what you want, sorry Sandrine I have to go, I’m late “

“Ok, bye, see you on Saturday”

“Yeah … Saturday “he said distantly.

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“Click” he had put down the phone, that wasn’t much help. Tomorrow I’m
going back to that miserable place and I’ll just ask her. I collapsed
backwards onto my bed.

“Brr, brrr birr “my alarm was screeching down my left ear deafening me, I
realized that I had slept through most of yesterday and I was still wearing
the clothes from the day before.

I forced myself to get up. I sauntered into the bathroom to clean my teeth
and a change of clothes could be good. I looked at the clock; 11:15.
Visiting hours finished at 12, if I wanted to see ‘my mum ‘I’d have to get a
move on. I raced down the communal staircase and slammed the front
door so hard some of the paint work chipped.

I raced through the roads towards the prison, I quickly ran up the concrete
steps this hurt my feet. I reached the mangy old desk and said “Catherine
tally”, as bluntly as I could manage.

The officer tapped a few keys on the computer and gave the screen a
confused look after a moment he turned to face me, I could tell from his
expression all in remorse and had a look of pity in his eyes finally he said
“she’s dead”, I felt like my life was over I could feel my heart coming to a
halt; everything around me no longer mattered. I burst into tears.

I no longer cared if she was my mother; all that mattered was that she had
died and nobody cared.

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 Green Soul
by Emerald Kenny

The small village of Wiltleaf nestled in an idealistic valley in some

very green county. How the hell had she ended up in this back-water?
Isabelle Rowan was depressed. And any other word there was for it.
She had been packed of to this sugary little village without a word. It just
happened. But not without a reason, a big stinking reason. The harsh sunlight
cut into her hard eyes, making her squint.
Slowly the reality was dawning one her, these last few days had
moved like a dream, some ghastly nightmare even. Through all the talking
and generic comfort, Isabelle was finally coming terms with her situation.
One without her father.
Reflections of memories, all the shouting and drink. It was bound to
come to this Isabelle told herself. Staying here in Wiltleaf was monotonous;
everyone stared at her like she had grown a second head and her grandma
kept asking awkward questions.
The meadows that surrounded the village were far from idealistic; it
was scary how perfect they were. Many things began to float through
Isabelle’s head, what she supposed to do now? Walking cross these
meadows for a whole summer was pointless. A cocktail of emotions washed
through every inch of her body, infecting her veins in a magma of confusion.
A sudden breeze of an odd scented wind rustled across the meadows,
catching the dew drops upon the grass. Isabelle clutched her leather bomber
jacket about her un-naturally thin form from the cold clarity of the wind. The
glistening wind had blown from the north.
Directly ahead, across the blissful meadows lay a forest. It sat upon
the landscape like an emerald and a jeweller’s counter. Its deep depths were
where the strange wind had blown from.
A cool, fine mist seemed to inhabit this deep, mossy wood. The cold
bliss of its touch brought relief to Isabelle from the hateful eye of the sun.
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She stood among this trove of nature, the great trees rose up, knarled and
ancient. Like great gods they stood, reaching up to the sky blocking out the
light except for shafts of pure light, stained with green, that fell through the
canopy. Every green of this place was perfect, a million hues of the colour
danced before Isabelle’s eyes.
This forest was alive though. Chirps of birds were heard about the
leaves and echoing rustles and snapping indicated other creatures deeper
in the wood.
This place felt like heaven for Isabelle. After the dingy, claustrophobia
of the city, this place was a lease of new life. Isabelle had always adored
nature as it was so beautiful compared to the clunky contraptions of mankind.
Time fell away from her. The light of the forest now glowed an amber
hue. Light was fading but Isabelle didn’t care.
But then fate pointed one finger at her, shouted ‘OI’ and took away
the chance of a normal life from her.
Isabelle saw it. A glow, a dancing glow. A bright lime colour, the light
began to bob, weave and dance in front of Isabelle’s face. It wanted her to
follow it, she thought. Her mind was playing tricks on her, but Isabelle was
past the stage of caring now and decided out of pure curiosity to follow the
light.
Over twisted root and sharp boulder the light lead her, deeper then
she had been, into the wood. The light suddenly vanished and Isabelle’s
senses returned to her, she was stranded, deep in the forest in the middle of
the night.
But she wasn’t alone. Laughter resonated from the branches of a
glorious ash tree. Slumped atop the branches was a figure, laughing and
playing with the dancing light.
Isabelle coughed.
The light flared up, illuminating the trees about with a pale glow.
They stared at each other and three little words popped into Isabelle’s
head.
“Oh. My. God.”
The thing sitting on the branches had the head and legs of a deer
but the torso and arms of a man. Isabelle couldn’t stop staring.
The creature had locked eyes with her. Each being took in each
other’s oddities. For him it was her long hazel hair, un-naturally thin frame
and leather bomber jacket. For her it was his ivory horns, broke-like hooves
and strings of painted stones.
“Whoops,” the creature mumbled before dropping from the branch.
Isabelle didn’t respond but began to back away slightly. The creature shot
her a glance, a cross of confusion and surprise on its face.
“What? Cat got your tongue miss?” the creature stated.
18
 Isabelle’s shoulders shook and she began to laugh, a high, squeaky
and manic laughter. Now the creature looked scared.
“Urm…miss?”
Isabelle continued to laugh, “Okay, where’s Jeremy Beadle, where’s
the hidden camera? I’ve read about this stuff, this can’t be real,” Isabelle let
out a great gasp of air from her lungs “Oh God will someone pinch me?”
Isabelle got her wish before the creature got smashed on the arm.
In perfect unison the two squealed at each other.
“What d’ya do that for?”
“You told me to pinch you!” the creature argued right back.
“If you touch me again Stag Boy, I’ll knock you into next week!”
Isabelle shot at the creature.
The creature ground its teeth together, “You’ve got all the
temperament of winter missy.”
Isabelle huffed, “Don’t call me ‘missy’ either; I have a name you
know.”
The stag creature didn’t speak so Isabelle continued, “It’s Isabelle,
Isabelle Rowan.”
The creature straightened, “Mine’s Ash, Miss Belle, just Ash.”
There was a stagnant silence before Isabelle spoke, “Well Ash…,”
she broke “Where the HELL am I! Did you your lure me here…”
Ash finished her sentence before Isabelle could draw out some sordid
conclusion, “Listen this was an accident, I was just playing with this Will-O-
Wisp when you showed up! Really I should take your memories away…”
There was a sudden gust of wind that pounded from deep within the
trees and ripped past them. “Or maybe not.” Ash concluded when the wind
died.
Isabelle sniggered internally when Ash sprang up and burst into a
string of colourful swear words, Ash began to grope at his fingers before
throwing an object Isabelle had never seen before to the ground.
It was a ring, hewn out of some unearthly green gem. Isabelle began
to reach for the ring before Ash cried out, “Don’t touch it!” But Isabelle touched
the ring when a force which felt like a cross between fire and electricity shot
up her arm, causing her to stagger back into the mossy earth.
“What the hell was that?” Isabelle squeaked. Ash clicked his tongue,
“It’s Oak, he’s callin’ a council meeting, and that’s not good, there hasn’t
been one for five centuries.” Isabelle shot to her feet, looking more flustered
than ever. “Well then”, Isabelle huffed, “Before you head off to this ‘Council
Meeting’ you can take me back home then.”
Ash took in a deep breath, “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that”.

19
 Isabelle froze, “Why not?” A manic grin flashed across Ash’s face,
“Because Oak asked me to bring you with me!” Before Isabelle could protest
Ash had slung her over his shoulder.
Accompanied by Isabelle’s foul-mouthed outbursts, the pair
thundered through the wood.
“Oh, do you ever shut up?” Ash cried as clouds of birds burst forth
into the morning sky.
The pair had ventured so deep into the wood that hardly any of the
twilight seeped through the canopy. A vale of flowers and vines hung in their
way. The pair stopped and Isabelle slumped from Ash’s shoulder. Before
she had a chance to protest, ash made a gesture for her to be silent and for
some reason she was.
Ash lowered his voice to a whisper, “Only pass the curtain when
you’re called”, and without any other words he disappeared behind the curtain.
A strange non-silence, but silence seemed to pass as odd voices
whispered from beyond the curtain, but the whisper became a voice, and a
voice became a cry until a full argument boomed from beyond.
A snarling voice then rose above the tumult and cried, “Then where
is this mortal?”
Isabelle then made the worst decision of her life; she barged straight
through the curtain. She froze and starred. She was in a great chamber that
was made of great and ancient trees. No light fell from the canopy but a
strange fluorescent glow illuminated the hall. Lining the chamber were thrones
made of different kinds of wood, but what interested Isabelle was their
occupants.
They were all like Ash, half-human, half-animal. Isabelle’s innards
froze with fear. She could feel a strong aura at her shoulder. That would be
Ash then.
The snarling voice spoke again but Isabelle could see its owner. It
came from a creature that had the head of a bear and the body of a man, but
instead of hands and feet it had bear paws. “What is this?” the bearman
spat.
“I believe I could answer your question, Yew”, echoed another voice
from the one empty throne. The air of hospitality fell and was replied by one
of respect. A sweet wind blew is the chamber and an ancient branch snapped
away from a tree and stood before the empty throne. The glistening wind
blew faster and the branch began to whittle itself down into a mystic stave.
A rush of leaves, a glow of cherry blossom and a great figure stood
before them. He had the head, the fur, the paws and tail of a lynx but the
stature of a man, and he stood swathed in a cloak of evergreen leaves and
clutching the perfect stave.

20
 “Oak,” Ash whispered, “The greatest of all the forest gods”. A silence
gripped the place once more before Isabelle spoke, her voice high-pitched
and strangled, “So you are gods then?”
“Yes we are, Isabelle Rowan”, Oak responded.
Isabelle squeaked. “How do you know my name?” she thought.
“We know many things”, echoed the voice of Oak in her head.
A creature spoke up who looked more man than owl, “We gods can
see more than your mortal minds perceive”.
“Thank-you Elm, I don’t really think we would want to scare our friend”.
Oak snapped. Elm ruffled his feathers before the bear creature called Yew
barked again.
“Why is she jeer anyway?” Yew snarled, “She should have lost her
memory of any of this by now”.
“I have reason to believe Ash should have taken her memories”, the
fox god stirred.
“Thank you Sycamore!” Ash snapped.
Yew rounded on Ash, “You have brought a human into our midst! It’s
your fault now if she goes and tells their government!”
“Actually it will be my fault if we fall as I asked Ash to bring Isabelle
here”, Oak answered. “But why my lord?” flustered Elm.
Isabelle screamed as a monkey God bobbed down out of the trees
straight into her face. “Why exactly Oaky?” Hawthorn the monkey god
chattered. Ash seized Hawthorn’s tail and lugged him through the air where
he smashed into yew’s chest. An assortment of sniggers and groans arose
from the assorted gods.
The only goddess there stood up, she was like Oak, with the fur,
head, paws and tails (of which she had three) of a wolf but the stature of a
woman.
“Now”, the goddess spoke softly “we are not setting the best example
for our guest now, are we?” The goddess’s eyes were heavily lidded in what
looked like eye shadow and mascara, but they were pigmented in the colours
you could only ever find in nature. “Willow, I hope you’re not sympathizing
with this intruder?” Yew growled in response.
Isabelle felt Ash tense beside her. “Peace, all of you, we are faced
with the greatest crisis this dominion has ever witnessed and you persist in
squabbling like children”, Oak stated.
“Well, with all due respect my lord”, Sycamore sleepily said, “What
is this great crisis that you speak of?”
Oak raised a clenched fist, “I shall show you!” Oak opened his fist.
In his palm was a single cherry blossom, which then exploded into a million
other cherry blossoms. The amethyst storm began to rage with a strange
malice, crashing about Isabelle. But, he could see images opening within
21
the tempest of petals. She recognized the great hulking shapes within the
images. The storm died and each petal shimmered into nothing in a blaze of
pink light.
“Now tell me Miss Rowan,” Oak began, “what did you see within the
storm?”
“It was a group of construction and de-foresting machines,” Isabelle
answered, suddenly finding her voice again, “that must mean they’re gonna…”
Oak finished her sentence, “…tear down the forest…taking us with
it.”
A now shocked silence descended on the gathering of gods. A sudden
thought passed through Isabelle’s head. How could gods be afraid of death?
But she didn’t have too long to think as everything happened too
quickly. There was a guttural roar as Yew lunged for her, and Ash sent her
lurching to the ground.
“PEACE YEW!” Oak showed the first trace of emotion sneaking into
his voice. Yew stilled, muscles quivering. Isabelle half expected him to start
spitting venom. “I don’t know what goes on in that sick little mind of yours
Yew!” Ash shouted.
Yew just responded by charging straight at Ash.
“Stop it!” Willow cried her voice somewhere between a squeak and
a sob.
The fight continued regardless, fists, claws and horns following some
deadly dance before Isabelle’s eyes until she couldn’t take the sight anymore.
She fled from that place, trying to put as much distance between her and
those terrible gods. Somewhere in between madness and fear something
clicked and Isabelle found an idea in this chaos.
That night there was a terrible accident on the construction site.
The gods were more confused than the construction workers. “From
the reports Sycamore acquired, many of their ‘machines’ were damaged in
the explosion”, Elm flustered. Every god couldn’t understand how this could
have happened, but Willow wore a little smug smile to herself. She knew
exactly what had happened.
A vale of bleak silence hung over the construction site. It was a grey
and bleak night, the ones where there was nothing Isabelle was feverishly
draining some petrol from a digger. She had no idea why the concept of
sabotage had crossed her mind, but it had. She was sealing off the bottle of
petrol when a furry hand encircled her forearm.
“Why are you doing this?” Willow whispered.
Isabelle straightened up, “Because I can”.
Willow spun the girl around to face her, “No really”, the goddess
continued to whisper, “What happened?” Willow felt a great shudder run
through Isabelle.
22
 “My father abandoned me”.
Willow’s face stayed the same, still sorrowful, but yet still loving. She
wanted Isabelle to continue.
“So why are you helping us?” Willow’s face said.
Isabelle jerked back a great sob, trying to retain her composure in
front of this deity. “I don’t want you to be killed so trivially, like an accident. No
creature alive deserves to die like that!”
Willow’s face still stayed the same.
“I suffered when he walked out of my life, I ended up here in this
backwater ‘cause my gran lives here. I don’t want you ‘gods’ to suffer for no
reason”.
But before Isabelle could go into anymore detail, the sweet wind
blew across the construction site. “I have a question of my own”, Isabelle
began, “what is that wind?” “Oh, that”, Willow said in a trivial way, “that’s
Oak. It’s the embodiment of his presence”.
“But it’s the same wind I felt when I came into this forest”.
Willow’s brows furrowed before they drew back in slight
understanding. “Well…maybe…you were chosen”, Willow grandly concluded.
“What?” Isabelle scoffed.
“A lot of this stuff revolves around you”, spoke Willow, “Anyone could
have followed that Will-o-Wisp, but it was you”.
Isabelle was confused and shell-shocked, “But I can’t be some kind
of ‘Chosen One’, I’ve read about that kind of stuff in books, it doesn’t work
like that”.
Willow just gave her a benevolent smile: a creak and a groan of
wood thundered from out of the forest, and Willow vanished.
“No! Come back!” Isabelle cried as she snatched at the air where
Willow once stood. Isabelle faltered, pausing in her frantic grabbing of the
air. Isabelle felt a great burning power well up inside her. It was a feeling of
motivation. She should save these gods; they didn’t deserve death like this.
A bitter sweet smile spread across her face as she began to rip out the
digger’s wiring.
She began her work by night, sabotaging the construction work in
any way she could think. Her first idea involved scarring the workers. She
left signs made of dead animals and plants; spoke through tubes whilst they
spoke and generally haunted them. But then came a surprise, even for her.
Isabelle was lurking outside the portacabins thinking about what to
do next, when a smell of pepper flooded her senses and she planted her
hands to the earth. A strange power flooded through her hands and into the
earth. There was a rumble from within the cabin before blazed of shock and
pain blazed from within. A shaft of artificial light fell across Isabelle’s body
before she bolted for the trees. Isabelle decided to stop her plan to frighten
23
off the workers. But putting two and two together made her realize that
someone had interfered, and she gave anyone three guesses about whom.
At least Willow hadn’t sat on his head yet. Sycamore had decided to
assist Isabelle in her job when she figured out who was causing the sabotages
but apparently it didn’t work. And Willow detected his powers. “Listen, don’t
try and interfere or you might kill Isabelle”, Willow snapped. Sycamore
continued to listen to Willow’s rant about controlling mortals, but he didn’t
care. Willow was the only being that he let walk all over him. But Sycamore
and Willow were overheard by a figure hiding in the branches.
Isabelle had decided to limit her activities by keeping away from the
workers. She burnt the scaffolding, mixed cement with stinking mud and
broke the machinery. Her resolve that night was to steal all their tools and
bury them somewhere in the wood. Her shovel flashed in the moonlight as
she wounded the earth, digging a hole deep in the earth. After she had emptied
her bag of tools in this hole she would home to go back for more tools.
A large bag full of tools slumped on the lip of the hole and Isabelle
looked up. Ash stood on the hole’s edge. “What are you doing here?” Isabelle
grunted as she continued to shovel the dirt. “Helping”, murmured Ash, “I
worked it out, you’re behind the sabotage”.
“Well done, a gold star to you”, Isabelle snapped.
Only the scratching of her spade could be heard until Ash shoved a
nail in the coffin, “I’m sorry”.
Isabelle sighed, “Yeah well”.
Ash sniffed before lopping off into the trees.
“Where are you going?”
“To get more tools!”
Isabelle allowed herself a small smile.

Again another sunset; again another day, again another root in the
forest’s grave. Isabelle sat on her own, under an old, dying oak tree. The
bleeding light fell at a pool at her feet, she thought about all she had tried to
stop the construction but it was all to no avail. Isabelle couldn’t really stop
the workers.
A rustle of foliage arose from the shadows. Isabelle started and she
saw Oak hobble from the darkness. The god looked like he had aged around
fifty years, he used his stave to support him and he walked hunched over.
“Oak?” Isabelle croaked,
“Ah, Miss Rowan”, Oak spoke, his voice still as curt and intelligent
as it had been when she first met him.
The lynx god growled under his breaths as he levered himself down
to sit next to Isabelle on one of the tree’s almighty roots. It looked like arthritis

24
had gripped Oak’s joints. Isabelle saw that his cloak had become a weave of
frosty branches.
Isabelle felt nervous when the great god sat next to her. Oak raised
her head to the orange sky, his eyes towards the construction site. “Well”,
Oak began, “It appears that the humans have not been deterred in their
activities”. “Oak, what’s happened to you?” Isabelle choked.
Oak fixed Isabelle with a piercing stare that made her want to run
and hide, “I’m dying Isabelle. With every tree the humans cut down the pain
in my gut worsens”. A scared look was written across Isabelle’s face, “Can’t
you stop it: you’re a god after all”.
“My life-force is bound to this forest, when this land is coated with
concrete and metal I shall die a very painful death”.
Isabelle was shaking with fear now, “Why are you talking like this?
Gods can’t die!” “Yes we can Isabelle”, Oak answered sternly, “but there is
one thing I can say thank-you for”.
“What?”
“For answering my call”, spoke Oak, “You were drawn here by the
wind that I created. Fate, Isabelle Rowan, is more real than humankind
realizes”.
The great god rested his paws upon the root and he began to fade
away, his body disintegrating into dead oak leaves. Isabelle gave a squeal
of fear but soon there was nought left of the once great god but a pile of
rotting leaves. Isabelle collapsed to her knees, shuddering with fear. But
amongst the decaying black she spied a glint of bronze. Isabelle plunged
her hand into the decayed foliage and withdrew a large acorn. “Oak?” Isabelle
murmured. A sweet wind swiftly swept from deep within the bowels of the
oak tree. The wind blew towards the construction site. “You want me to follow?”
Isabelle asked. The wind blew once more and Isabelle followed.
She followed the wind deep into the heart of the construction site
and twisted around a patch of earth. Isabelle began to scrabble at the dirt
and placed the acorn in the hole she had created before sealing it with dirt.
An almighty blast of green energy seethed through the earth, bringing shinning
flowers and trees in its wake.
Isabelle shot to her feet; she took in the shinning forest. This was
Oak’s own power, his life-force. “Isabelle”, echoed a voice. She spun around
to see Oak standing there, more mighty than Isabelle had ever seen him
before. Yet a look of great sadness was written across his face.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”.
A great strobe of the light and the shinning forest was gone, taking
the ghost of Oak with it.
Deep within the woods, Yew stirred from his deep slumber. Fear
snapped him in two: “Oak is dead”, the bear god breathed. “What?” Ash had
25
suddenly appeared. Yew slowly span about, “Oak is deed”. All the blood
drained from Ash’s face and then he saw the look of malice in Yew’s eyes.
Yew smashed past Ash roaring like mad, cursing every aspect of
humankind. Yew had finally snapped. Ash knew something very bad was
going to happen.
Isabelle could feel the shudders of the earth, was it magic again?
What was happening? Crashes chimed from other parts of the site so Isabelle
went to investigate. She regretted that for a long time.
Yew was tearing up the site, workers being crushed like flies.
“Oh God” Isabelle gasped when Yew spotted her. Isabelle closed
her eyes and braced herself for the bit where she got ripped apart. Yet that
part never came as tons of metal girders and scaffolding crashed down upon
them. A tumult of dust exploded when Ash emerged from the trees, his breath
coming in short sharp gasps. But the dust settled…
…all was silent.

26
 Scarcely Credible
by Christopher Tavener

SLAM! One more door slammed in Peter Jamerson’s face. He’d given
them one photo and 500 words of the biggest scoop of news he could find
and still they thought they had enough to turn him away. Was it the story?
No, it couldn’t be. Mrs Smith’s cat dying was a fantastic story, there were
interviews and everything. However instead of standing on the step face
to face with the door for any longer Peter began his walk home.

The rain drenched his thin black coat as he scuffed his shoes on the
pavement. It was gone six o’clock before he managed to get on the road
to his flat and once he’d rattled the keys in the door of his flat for a full
three minutes his stomach was aching with hunger. One more shove sent
him hurtling into the flat and bumping into a table.
Looking up from the floor on which his head had impacted after being
launched into the table he checked himself for bruises before heaving
himself up from the floor and onto his feet. His flat was a particularly clean
one but not thanks to Peter. Fortunately for Peter he had a very organised,
enthusiastic, cheerful flat mate to welcome him home after his useless
attempts to step into the journalism business.

“Hey Paul!”
“Hi Peter, did they accept your article?”
“Not this time” Peter answered.
Paul Scott had always been Peter’s best friend as far back as he cared to
remember. Always there for him through thick and thin, the only problem
was that he was an accountant and could be slightly boring sometimes but
who could complain when a friend does all those other things for you.
“Back to the old newsagents then?” Paul said as he reheated Peter’s
dinner as per usual.
27
“Yes, for now” Peter replied.
The next day brought new hope of discovery for Peter. The newsagents
was closing early today and rumour had it that a live gig was going on just
outside of town. Fortunately for Peter the gig managers thought sending
invitations through email was the only necessary way to advertise so he
hoped that no other journalists had heard about it. He could just get there
in time; he couldn’t believe his luck.
That satisfied cheerful mood was quickly diminished by the grumpy mood
of his boss at the newsagents so the day wore on as slowly as a snail
dragging a kilogram bag of sugar. When closing time finally came he
raced out of the shop, grabbed a quick take-away, his camera, a note pad
and pen then darted to the concert.
Hundreds of teenagers lined the outside of the open air stadium in the
darkening street. Some not much younger than Peter and others still in
high school. Some already had a bottle of alcohol clasped in their hand
and were swaying with the wind, gormless looks etched on their faces.
The queue moved quickly and Peter was soon trapped among the riotous,
dancing teens surrounded by blazing lights illuminating a distant stage. As
Peter looked around he was dazzled that there wasn’t a single reporter at
such a gigantic event.
Breaking away from the drunken, jumping rabble that was the audience he
decided that it would be best to locate an organiser to interview while it
was moderately early in the evening. He made his exit through the crowd,
heading towards the entrance of the stadium to find a doorman or a
manager of some description to talk to when suddenly Peter saw
something that made him suddenly pause. As he approached the door to
the stadium an old man of about sixty years old strode in wearing a
smooth, regal black suit matched with a gold encrusted cane and jet black
shoes that you could see the whole room’s reflection in.
Peter was stuck fast, dumbstruck by the old man who now strolled around
the back of the stadium obviously oblivious to the fact that he stuck out
like a sore thumb in his elegant clothes; fortunately for the new arrival
everybody seemed completely transfixed on the stage. Peter shook
himself and followed the man as he swaggered though another door,
curious to fin out what was going on.
“Mr Miller please get off my back about this”.
“Come on Eric we need you to help, it’s good money.”
Peter entered the room to find that it was the lighting control room where
the concert lights were operated. Sat down at the control desk were two
men, one of which was busy with the lights and the other was arguing with
the old man.
“That’s what you say every time Mr Miller but it’s not going to happen.”
28
The old man then responded “but it’s an experience if nothing else; a
chance to be part of something amazing.”
“I’m sorry but...” The man stopped in mid sentence.
“Hey what are you doing in here?”
Peter suddenly realised that he had just wandered into the room and
stared at the commotion developing.
“Oh...erm I was...just erm.”
“Speak boy speak!” demanded the old man whom the man at the desk
called Mr Miller.
“ I was looking for an interview with an organiser I am a reporter” Peter
replied.
The man at the desk whom the old man called Eric then piped up after a
short silence when they expected Peter to explain further.
“Ah well you can interview me, Mr Miller has quite finished here” he said
shooting a look at Mr Miller. Mr Miller than shot a look back at Eric before
pulling his jacket tight, raising his head and stalking out of the room.
A short time later Peter had scribbled some valid notes on his pad of paper
from Eric and was walking out of the lighting room to take some photos
when Mr Miller spoke to him from behind.
“So what newspaper do you work for sonny?”
He spun round in shock to see Mr Miller leaning on the back wall smoking
a fat cigar.
“Oh I am an independent reporter.”
“I hate that newspaper”
“Oh no, I mean I’m self employed, I give a story to anyone who will accept
it.”
“Oh right” Mr Miller said, a grin spreading across his face as for a moment
he went into a deep thought.
“I see, does that pay well then?”
“It’s pretty good”
Mr Miller laughed detecting Peter’s lie and stubbing out his cigar.
“So you wouldn’t be looking for any work then?”
“I’m always open to new areas of work”
Miller laughed again “your alright kid.”
Peter was amused by Miller. He didn’t seem to act his age at all.
“So how would you like to report a story for me? It’s gonna be big.”
“ But wouldn’t a big newspaper want to handle that story?”
“Let me explain” Miller answered “I am making a trip around the world on a
discovery mission. I’ve saved for it for years, the papers want the story on
it, the problem is they won’t pay for their man to travel with me, they want
me to pay instead. Of course I want the publicity so they think I am gonna
crack but now I’ve got you.”
29
“Mr Miller slow down, how am I supposed to pay for this?”
“You come along on this trip, you send the details back to the papers and
make them pay a ton for it. Finally I get off cheaper by paying 75 percent
of your travel costs, you pay for the rest with the money you earn after the
trip. I get the publicity, you get the money, the papers get the story;
everybody wins”
“Wow it’s quite a plan.”
“You bet your bottom dollar it is. So are you in?
Peter will still stunned by this sudden stroke of remarkable luck.
“Well I’ll have to think about it.”
“It’s a limited time offer” Miller said grinning eerily at Peter. Peter however
felt like he was cemented to the ground, dazzled by the situation that had
unravelled before him. It was such a massive decision; he had to think
about it. But he didn’t; everything was laid out before him, there for the
taking. Then what if it goes wrong? The papers don’t accept the story? It
was too bigger risk to take and too bigger opportunity to turn down. He
turned to Miller hoping that his brain had salvaged the right answer.
“I’ll do it!”

* * * *

Considering the fact Peter didn’t have a clue where he was going, how
long for and what he was going to be doing he was uncomfortable about
standing in an airport ready to begin Mr Miller’s thrilling discovery
adventure. Paul sat anxiously in a chair behind him. He had taken some
much needed time off work to work the finances for Miller. Peter was glad
to have a friend with him on a journey that he knew nothing about. They
both waited patiently just inside the airport waiting for Mr Miller and the
rest of the crew to arrive. Half an hour later a crowd of people were
bustling towards the airport. Paul stood up as they both stepped forward to
greet their employer.
Unfortunately for them Mr Miller was immersed in a stampede of reporters
yelling questions at him and wrestling with each other to get closer. Peter
was confused at first, he thought he was the only reporter on the job. His
worries were calmed when Miller shooed them away like a pack of
vultures and said that Jamerson was the only reporter coming with him.
Peter then tried to hide away from the onslaught he expected from the
reporters but was finally greeted by Miller and his colleagues instead.
“Ah Peter, Paul, glad to see you here on time” Miller said just as upbeat as
when he had first met him two weeks ago.
“Thank you again for this opportunity sir but you haven’t told me yet where
we are going?”
30
“Yes it was a very brief phone call before wasn’t it . Well step this way my
boy and you shall be informed.”
Miller waved his colleagues on and the troop of about twenty people
crossed through the airport and into a VIP check in zone. Soon everybody
was through and making their way across the short distance from the
airport building to a gleaming white private jet.
“P-P-Peter we’re not going in th-th-th-that are we?” Whenever something
truly astonished or shocked Paul he would sometimes stutter
uncontrollably. Peter sometimes though he did it purposely as a joke but
he was paying no attention to his question right now. All of his
concentration went into comprehending the marvel he was now boarding.
Once everyone was seated Miller made a short speech about how glad he
was to begin the exploration Mentioning Beil Armstrong’s “small step for
man” line to make it even more cheesy. He seemed careful not to mention
what they would be doing when they arrived wherever they were going.

The plane left the airport and Peter felt a hint of excitement before Paul
hurled sick into a thin plastic bag next to him, putting him off his trail of
thought completely. There was little contact between the passengers on
the flight as Miller was the only on who knew everyone on board but
introductions were made when the plane touched down in Scotland.

“Ok everyone this is the team you’re going to be working in for the next
three months” Miller said as Peter whipped out a notebook to catch the
names.
“John is our cameraman; Mike is our sound technician, Mike, John, John,
Mike.” Miller waffled on as John and Peter shook hands.
“Sally is our engineer. Sally, John, John, Sally, Mike, Sally, Sally, Mike”
Miller then paused, noticing the groups bored, disapproving facial
expressions.
“Well you can all get to know each other when we get to the site” Miller
laughed trying to cover up his embarrassment.
A quick mini bus journey brought out more conversation between the team
and more sick from Paul’s stomach. Eventually the bus driver pulled the
brake in a little Scottish town Miller didn’t bother to tell us the name of.
Miller led us swiftly out of the bus and in the direction of his site. The town
had a beautiful landscape with grass tress and hills everywhere. Both
Peter and Paul were utterly stunned by their day so far and remained at
the back of the team for the rest of the journey to the site.
Peter didn’t know quite what to expect when they were heading for the site
but he certainly didn’t expect what he saw when they arrived. Miller made
it over the last hill with the group close behind him and there was a loud
31
gasp that swept the team. Before them was a gargantuan, luscious lake
that stole everyone’s breath.
“Welcome everyone to where you’ll be working for the next month.
Lochness Lake!” Miller called out to the group as he led them down the
slope of the last hill and over to the tents positioned near the Lake. H
ushered everyone and onto seats and stools for yet another speech.
“Ok, you people are the most skilled people I could find in your profession
and it’s time for me to tell you what you are all doing here.”
The twenty men and women then waited anxiously for Miller to continue,
this time taking an interest in what he was saying. Everyone was perched
on the edge of their seats making it obvious for Peter to see that nobody
had been told what they were supposed to do out here.
“My aim is to locate the stuff of legend. Lochness Lake is our first
destination ladies and gentlemen but we are going to America, China,
Hungary; around the world. Our mission is to find the Lochness Monster,
Big foot, The Abominable Snowman, a unicorn, a dragon. I know they all
exist, they have just been lost in time, they’ve hidden away from the
radical changes of the world. However I propose to show them to the
world!”
At this point everyone in the tent was baffled by Miller’s insane plan. They
sat in disbelief waiting for him to say that it was all a joke.
“How on Earth can you prove this stuff?” one man piped up from the back
after a silence that too long to break.
“My great great grandfather and father before him all worked on this same
case” Miller answered.
“They all managed to bring back drawings and recounts of their
adventures in different parts of the world but nobody believed them. Years
later, actual photographs begin cropping up. It’s all damming evidence that
something is there.”
Another silence. Everyone was thinking about this crazy idea but also
about the money involved. Peter also sat still on his seat with thoughts
whizzing through his mind. On one hand was to escape this wild goose
chase and go back to England while he was still near home and on the
other hand was to carry on with the process, see what happens and
hopefully still get the money (he had no idea where miller’s profit was
coming from if any).

Considering the fact that this was the second time Peter had trusted Miller,
without any information what so ever Peter was puzzled by his own
decision to stay with the group. Despite Miller’s crackpot theories the
entire team had stayed on the trip (all in it for the money of course). Paul
however hated the idea and was worrying himself to death on what was
32
going to happen next. Both Peter and Paul were slouched on the bank of
the Lake a day after Miller’s astounding confession. Their job was to sit
and look out for any sign of the Lochness monster and report it. Miller
really sounded like he actually believed everything he told them to do, he
had so much determination, he seemed like a changed man since Peter
first met him.
With them was John the cameraman. Miller had taken his marine experts
in a mini submarine like vessel and delved into the lake to bring up
Nessie, leaving the unfortunate three on duty to watch for them emerging
from the water and allowing the others to go into the village.
“So how did you get involved in this John?” Peter asked after several long
minutes of awkward silence.
“He actually told me he could get me onto BBC news programs and work
their studios. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen now. That guy has
just got too many screws loose.”
The trio of lookouts then sank back into silence. John didn’t seem to be a
man who liked conversation. He was wearing hiking boots, a denim jacket
and jeans. He had short brown hair and from his organisation it looked as
though he had faced the outside camping conditions before. They had
been sitting outside for a full half hour before Peter managed to bring up
that bit of conversation then to have it immediately silenced.
The rest of the day was much the same. The odd question about John
was occasionally fitted in but Peter spent most of his time looking out on
the lake, bored out of his skull. Paul on the other hand spent his day
complaining about Mr Miller and his expedition, then worrying about what
to do next and thinking very hard while pacing the ground to a designated
footpath. Peter was envious of his busy day. Mr Miller returned back to the
camp with nothing, although he didn’t seem too embarrassed about it.
“One day down brings us one step closer to finding the Lochness Monster
team; great job today!”

Peter presumed he was trying to lighten people’s spirits after their

pointless day and redeem himself after his humiliating day yesterday.
Nobody had yet forgiven him and they went back to their tents thinking
about the next mortifying day of ridiculous tasks. Paul continued his
ongoing list of complaints about everything he could find and eventually
talked himself to sleep. Peter on the other hand was lying in silence with
worries bubbling in his mind. What on Earth could he say to the papers?
His future aspirations in the journalism business would surely be ruined.
He came to no conclusion before he fell asleep and found no better result
after sleeping on it and waking up to the irritated members of the camp
stomping around outside.
33
The second day dragged on much like the last without even a scrap of
evidence to suggest there was a creature in the lake. The third day was
very similar and so was the fourth. When the fifth day came there was a
spreading hatred for Miller among the camp mates. It was time for the
team to pack up and move on to the next area on Miller’s map of
monsters. He opened the day with one of his trademark speeches about
his disappointment with finding nothing at the site and promising they
would have a stroke of luck in their next location. Everyone was also tiring
of his determination and enthusiasm in trying to drive the group to work
harder. Miller still slept away from the campers in a gigantic luxury tent
and wore expensive clothing everyday which only fired the team’s hatred
for him further and further.
The journey across Europe by plane was much the same as last time,
although there was less excitement and more frustration running through
the passengers. Miller must have had some clue that the group we’re
beginning to find him irritating because he bought himself a seat in the
cockpit. Unfortunately unlike what Peter had predicted friendships were
not being made and the only thing the team seemed to talk about if
anything was how much they hated Miller. They all had to stay with him
because they had foolishly quit their high paid professions to join the
adventure and were only getting paid after Miller’s mad quest. Peter and
John (who ended up sitting next to each other again for the flight) had
however moved on from questions about just John and had begun to talk
more about each other’s lives at home. This didn’t last very long however
as Peter grew depressed when he talked about his home and John wasn’t
a man for talking. This was turning out to be one of Peter’s worst
experiences of his life. What could possibly make it worse?
When they landed in their next mystery country Peter was still dwelling on
the fact that he hadn’t got a single article to send back to the newspapers.
Miller hadn’t helped him at all, not even an interview. It was him who
wanted the publicity. Looking around the airport they had landed in it
seemed very small compared to those in the United Kingdom, there were
no large airplanes anywhere. However beyond the airport was the much
more striking view. Even from the airport they could see humungous ice-
topped mountains in the distance that astounded everyone who
disembarked the plane. Great expanses of land lay ahead of them to the
North, filled with ploughed land, villages and vast amounts of conifer trees.
Miller acted as cheerful as he could when he welcomed the team outside
of the plane after shunning them away for the long journey there.
Everyone prepared for his speech.
“Welcome everyone to Nepal! I trust you all had a splendid flight?” Miller
shouted to the group from the top of the plane stairs. Nobody answered
34
and Miller quickly resumed his shouting.
“Ahead of you is where we are going to find The Abominable Snowman;
the Himalayan Mountains!”
He paused for a moment just in case anybody bothered to applaud him
but then went straight back to his speech again.
“So lets all head up to the village we’ll be staying at. Six people per jeep
please.”
The team then dispersed and got onto four awaiting jeeps for yet another
journey to wherever their destination would be. The mood was slightly
lightened as the jeeps trundled along Nepal and everyone began to chat
more frequently and pleasantly. Peter knew that this was of course
because of the beautiful landscape around them which got better and
better as the jeeps got further and further North. Paul had forgotten all
about his hatred for Miller (Peter suspected he had also got bored of it)
and was now excited that the unbelievable mountains kept getting closer
and closer towards them. The passengers were not even deterred when
the slopes got steeper and steeper as they got higher and higher up the
closest mountain. Peter always favoured English instead of geography so
had no idea what this mountain was called but anticipated the moment
when Mr Miller or a guide would point to the legendary Mount Everest.
They eventually stopped at a village where the jeep couldn’t go much
further and the team leaped off the jeeps to stretch their legs, gaze at the
view of where they had come and the sun beginning to set. Miller however
stuck to the mission and began to speaking to what Peter presumed to be
an English speaking guide. At this point Paul and Peter joined him to take
a look at their new accommodation.
“Peter, Paul, how are you two? It’s quite a magnificent view isn’t it?
“It certainly is sir. Are we staying here for a while?” Paul asked
“I’m afraid not, just tonight and then we are off up the mountain all day and
then camping. But I’d keep it to yourselves, the authorities aren’t too keen
on us making a small campsite up there” Miller answered.
“Mr Miller” Peter said stepping into the conversation. “Could I maybe get
an interview to send into the papers please?”
“Peter we just arrived, there’s no time to talk now” Miller said before calling
the rest of the team in and disappearing into the village to find rooms for
everyone leaving Peter and Paul to instead take a couple of quick photos
on their digital cameras.
“I took several photos on the journey” bragged John carrying his case of
camera and film camera equipment.
“Paul’s head was in the way for my photos. It is a dazzling place out here.”
Peter said.
“You won’t be saying that when we’re out searching for something that
35
doesn’t exist all day” John reminded Peter.
“I know, that Mr Miller may have the money but he is annoying me to
pieces” Paul moaned and Peter knew he was slipping back into his
irritated mood and him and John decided to make a quick exit to find the
rest of the team.
“Hey wait for me!” Paul called after them as he jogged to catch them up.

The sun set and rose on the next day but the team’s happy, cheerful
feeling got lost in the process. The whole group we’re their usual
miserable selves after their night in the Himalayan village when Miller
banged pans together to wake them. The group wearily hurried out of the
village and begun the long hike up the mountain. It was eight o’clock in the
morning and Peter couldn’t understand how Miller could still maintain his
positive attitude. John seemed to have a similar alertness about him and
even with a backpack of camera equipment and a film camera balanced
on his shoulder he over took Paul and Peter immediately leaving them
dragging at the back of the team.
After two hours the slopes became very steep and members of the party
started taking out ice axes to help haul themselves and their bags up
some slippery rifts in the rock. Peter unfortunately had come completely
unprepared for these conditions and wished he was near the front of the
group so that if he fell he could be supported by another hiker.
During their lunch break Miller continued to look out across the mountain
for the creature he sought using binoculars. How on Earth could a man of
his age have so much energy? Peter thought to himself while tucking in to
a two-day-old chicken sandwich. John was becoming a good friend of
Peters as he soon joined Paul and him on the flat edge of a rock.
“Wow it really is spectacular up here isn’t it? John taunted with a beaming
smile.
“I bet this is a breeze for you isn’t it? How much more hiking now?” Paul
complained.
“Miller said we will probably be trekking up this mountain for the next four
or five hours. I can’t wait to get up to the top!” John answered before
walking away to join the front line of the team who were preparing to leave
again.
Peter lifted himself onto his legs before yanking Paul to his then joined the
rest of the party for another few hours of hell. Paul complained more than
ever in their hike towards the top and Peter almost felt like kicking him
back down the mountain but agreed with him on Miller’s deception and his
insane ideas on forcing an accountant and a wannabe reporter up an eight
kilometre high mountain. With the amazing altitude they were at and the
gradient of the mountain Peter was amazed Miller finally found a spot to
36
set up a few tents after hours of climbing. It was obvious it had all been
cleverly planned out and he imagined what might have happened if they
hadn’t made it this far. The group abandoned their equipment in any space
they could find and slumped against the mountain exhausted from their
efforts.
“Well that all turned out very well team I am glad to have an amazing
group of individuals like you on my expedition” Miller ranted. “Today’s work
was getting up the mountain; tomorrow we search every nook and cranny
to find the creature.”
His small audience groaned and began to act busy with the tents so that
he would stop talking to them. Peter was not very skilled in this area so
John helped him construct their six person tent with Paul and two other
fatigued workers who looked so exhausted that they could have climbed
the mountain three times today. As soon as the tents were up Miller
retreated to sleep inside to keep up his unbelievable momentum.
Meanwhile Peter and his friends sat outside determined to watch the
spectacular sun set from the Himalayan Mountain that Peter still didn’t
know the name of. The trio of friends talked, laughed and joked for hours
in the radiant glow of the sun set and Peter felt a new pulsation of
enthusiasm and happiness. They eventually crawled back to their tents to
enjoy a contented sleep.
The next day Peter awoke that morning to the sound of irritated campers
as he was sure he had heard his name in amongst their bickering. He
crawled past Paul, a hunter and a marine biologist all fast asleep to find a
gap in the front flap of his tent.
“I can’t stand one more day of this. That Miller is really going to get it if we
hike for nothing one more day” said one woman.
“Don’t worry guys I have a plan” said a man already dressed in his full
mountaineering gear. As soon as he said this the group huddled tight
together and Peter found it difficult to hear what they were saying.
“We’re not going to find anything. It’s obvious there is nothing out there to
be found. But we can make something for Miller to find.”
A gasp of shock and then approval came over the gathering.
“If we fake finding this monster then nobody will ever know. The only
reporter here is working for Miller. We could sell the fake pictures and
anything else we think up for a fortune” the man continued. “So who’s with
me?”
Every member of the crowd agreed to the plan and quickly moved off to
plan the rest of their scheme as Miller came into view showing enthusiasm
beyond belief as usual. Peter sat up right in the tent thinking about what
the group had just been saying. They were expecting him to fake this
whole expedition? Miller would never agree to this plan so what were they
37
going to do with him? His head was overcome with worries once again on
his adventure. He decided to wake Paul and investigate the plan these
people were plotting.
Exiting the tent without disturbing their sleeping colleagues Paul and Peter
caught up with the four people Peter recognised. He leaned out from
behind another tent attempting to listen in on their conversation with his
face in the brutal wind. He caught a few words but couldn’t string them
together to make any sense. The group seemed to be collecting a variety
of items from Miller’s suitcases of equipment and packing them into their
pockets and bags. Peter could leave and left them to fake Miller’s whole
adventure but he knew that it would destroy Miller if he found out and
Peter would be racked with guilt. Paul stood back to back with Peter
looking out for anybody approaching their position who could give away
where they were hiding. Unfortunately he was half asleep.
“Hi guys ready to…” John was interrupted as he walked towards them by
Paul and Peter frantically trying to keep him quiet.
“Shhhhhh” they hissed aggressively at him then turned back to watch what
the group were doing.
John took the hint, pulled up his backpack and scampered over to Paul
and Peter to peer behind the tent. The group were moving off. Having
collected their bundle of items they were sneaking away from the camp
into the wind and slopes of the mountain. Peter turned to Paul.
“Paul we’ve got to get back to Miller, we’ve got to tell him about this,
goodness knows what they could be doing to pull off this stunt we’ve got to
get back” Peter whispered although he didn’t thoroughly know why.
“Tell that to John” Paul said pointing his finger in the direction of where the
group had disappeared only now John was vanishing in the wind trying to
follow them.
“Oh sugar!” Peter called over the gradually increasing wind “we’ve got to
go after him, there’s nobody out there to help him if he falls.” Choosing to
ignore Paul’s complaints just as he had done the whole trip Peter ventured
into the unknown reaches of the mountain searching for John. The wind
was howling like a wolf when Peter stepped out of the safely covered spot
the camp was based in. He could only just hear Paul jogging to catch up
behind him and John treading carefully somewhere in front of him.
Pressing on against the lashing wind Peter managed to make out the
silhouette of John a couple of metres away from him. He must have had
the scheming group of fraudsters in his sights because he was completely
concentrated on keeping at a fast pace and kept looking ahead of him.
The wind was becoming unbearable, he could hear Paul behind him
beginning to slow down and he hoped that he would keep going as long
as he could. After a few more minutes John came to a sudden in front of
38
him. Peter’s feet almost slid out from under him with the shock. Once he
reached John standing in the now snow covered rocky pathway he
realised that John had completely lost the group and more importantly
where they were.
“What happened?” Peter cried over the wind.
“I don’t know they disappeared” John called back to him.
“Which way did they go?” Peter shouted and John pointed a finger down a
very steep slope.
Finally Paul caught up with John and the three of them contemplated the
dangerous path they would have to lower themselves down.
“Maybe we should go back for help?” Paul suggested.
“No they will be too far away by then” John said as he began striding
towards the slope with a surprising amount of confidence.
“You can’t expect us to go down there, we will be killed!” Paul objected.
“We have to Paul, the camp will have already gone by now, this is the only
sure way of finding someone we know” Peter said trying to lead Paul down
to the path. After thinking for an amount of time that made John and Peter
anxious Paul joined them at the end of the rocky stairs. Finding foot holes
for the rest of the brave trio John lead them down the rock face and all
seemed to be going well until he slipped half way down. He suddenly
screamed, arms flailing to try and grip his fingers onto a piece of the rock
as he plunged downwards into the darkness beyond Peter’s view.
“John!” Peters called after him as he watched him fall from the rock face
through the icy wind. He quickly began searching for a new foot hole so he
could dash to the ground.
“I’m alright Pete. The ground is closer than you think.” John assured him.
“Just let go Pete, it’s not far.”
Peter still couldn’t see John and was worried that his mind may be playing
tricks on him. Paul was now getting close to his head as he couldn’t
possibly hear John’s voice from where he was climbing.
“Paul, you have to trust me, let go of the rock, follow me” Peter instructed
him as he let himself fall from the rock and plunge into a bed of snow on
the ground below. John stood looking at him grinning. Peter soon moved
out of the way to witness what he never thought he would see. Paul fell
through the fog of snowy wind and landed on the bed of snow next to him
with an expression of achievement written all across his face. Peter was
about to congratulate him when something shook him. To be exact the
mountain shook him as a roar of noise like thunder boomed inside his ear.
The three friends stood motionless with fear. Shortly after the thundering
noise something else followed. It was another noise; a rumbling noise of
something very big. Peter was the first to leap into action jogging towards
the deafening sound of what he was sure was dangerous. Despite this
39
John and Paul quickly raced back into the thrashing wind following him.
Squinting with through the snow and keeping his ears acute to follow the
sound he emerged in a slight clearing where he saw exactly what had
made that terrible sound. A rampaging avalanche was storming down the
slopes of the mountain in the distance. Fortunately the avalanche was
further to the East of the mountain but they could see it thundering down
the slope, ploughing down everything in its path and along its path was a
village. When Peter took in the realisation of the situation he froze where
he stood. John and Paul were also dumbstruck when they arrived beside
Peter to see the avalanche and Peter knew he had to take action.
“Paul, get on the phone we need to help that village! Call Miller,
emergency services anyone you can!” He demanded, snapping Paul out
of his trance. Paul immediately tugged his backpack off himself and
rummaged for his phone. John also shook himself out of shock and pulled
his bag off to search it.
“John we need to do something! We need to help them down” Peter
insisted looking down at the innocent little village racking his brain for a
brilliant rescue idea.
“Peter we can’t get down there and stop an avalanche, nobody can.”
“But we have to do something!”
“yes we are going to do something” John reassured as Peter turned to him
to find out what he meant. In his hand he held his film camera and he was
lifting it onto his shoulder.
“We are going to film it” John explained now watching Peter through the
lens. “We’ll show it to the world, call in aid from everywhere” he continued
now grinning broadly, happy to have his camera back on his shoulder.
“But how are we going to...” Peter began but was then interrupted.
“I’m recording” John urged “say something!”
“um...well...hello, I am Peter Jamerson...” Peter mumbled.
John wasn’t impressed “Get on with it!”
“Well the chaos is about to unleash down here as you can see an
avalanche from a Himalayan Mountain in Nepal is heading down a slope
towards a small helpless village down at the bottom of the mountain. It will
be there in a short time, we need aid from anywhere you can get it. Please
anyone hearing this has to call for help. An avalanche doesn’t take long to
finish its journey, that village is lucky to have lasted this long but the
message must go out quickly to help these people. Thank you” Peter
concluded.
John stopped the film and quickly rushed to his laptop which Paul had set
up for him.
“Paul who did you call?” Peter asked.
“My phones dead, they’ll be no signal up here.”
40
“Then our only chance is the internet” John said “the video message has
gone out, lets hope somebody gets it.”
Suddenly another roaring crash indicated the avalanche had reached the
bottom of the slope but the rescuers had no time to think about that as
they were all thrown off balance in a short but powerful earthquake. Snow
covered them and Paul almost plummeted over the edge however once
the earthquake had stopped their worries weren’t over. As Peter struggled
to his battered legs he looked up to see a tree slowly leaning towards
them. Its lower trunk slowly began to crumble and again Peter was
overcome with fright. John and Paul lay unable to rise from the ground
staring up at the gigantic tree about to crush them. The tree gave them
only a few short seconds before it gave into gravity and fell towards them.
Peter felt his whole life rush past him and a strong sense of
disappointment.
Then all of a sudden the tree stopped falling. It hung just above their
heads for a few frightening seconds then was lifted above them.
Underneath the tree was a dazzling sight. An enormous human-like figure
was shadowed by the tree and mountain so that none of them could see
it’s face. It’s huge arms lifted the tree high above its head then dropped it
onto the ground. Still the figure made sure that the people could not see its
wide face on its towering head. Then all of a blur the silhouette dashed
back into the mountain and out of sight, hidden by the icy wind.
The trio of friends remained motionless and shocked. Even when the
sound of a helicopter and cars came pounding into their ears and their
blue lights flashed into their eyes they lay eyes wide on the frozen
mountain top. Not even beginning to comprehend what had just happened
and how they were going to explain it but just took in the moment until the
firemen helped them away and they gazed into the echoing pathway
where the figure had left.

* * * *

Nine months later Peter Steven Jamerson was walking down a corridor in
a large building. Strutting past the closed doors confidently and purposely
before he met someone he recognised immediately.
“Peter!”
“Paul my friend how are you taking to the new job” he asked.
“Brilliantly Peter brilliantly it’s much better than the accountancy industry”
Paul answered.
“I told you all along Paul” Peter replied laughing as Paul picked up his
phone and continued his work. It wasn’t long before Peter walked into his
bustling work place. Granada television studios.
41
John immediately welcomed Peter as confidently as Peter had walked in.
“Good morning Peter, you ready for this?”
“Definitely John there’s good stuff in the news today, are you ready?”
“Always ready for anything Peter, now get up there” John ordered in his
trademark cheerful manner and Peter followed his instruction heading
towards a beautifully lit stage complete with his favourite chair. As Peter
strolled up he couldn’t help but think about the days news he had to read.
Mr Miller world-wide known millionaire today after months of research
discovered twenty new species of fish in the Pacific Ocean. Just what he
had wanted all along Peter thought to himself, trying not to laugh at his
own joke inside his mind. He took a seat in front of the camera and waited
for the countdown.
“We are on in five” a man called out as Peter’s head spiralled into another
thought.
“Four!”
Who was that figure? Was it the fraudsters?
“Three!”
Or was it what he had always dreamed and hoped it was?
“Two!”
Maybe nobody will ever know and not everything is supposed to be
discovered?
“One!”
But he knew it had changed his life and he didn’t need to know why. He
was far more contented in dreaming what it was and never finding out for
real.

42
 Molly at Madcap Manor
by Lucie Fellows

Hello. My name is Molly and today I’m supposed to be starting at Madcap

Manor Boarding School and I DON’T want to go at all. You may think I’m
being selfish. That my parents are paying lots of money because they care
about me and want me to have the best opportunities in life. But that’s not
true. They barley know I exist. My mum loves horses and all animals and
my dad loves money and power. Typical. In an hour and a half I have to
get on a train and at 5:30 I’ll be at Madcap Manor. Aaaahh! Meeting all the
other students. Double Aaaahh with knobs on!

“Molly!” my carer shouted, “Time to go for the train.” Oh bumfluff. I walked

downstairs and Sarah started to cry.
“Oh Molly, you look so grown up.” She sobbed.
“Thanks.”
“Wed better be off,” said Sarah. We went and piled into the car.
“Off we go,” said Sarah. Woo!..Not.

“Here we are,” said Sarah, “Madcap Manor Station.” Oh. Great. Kill me.
“Which platform?” I asked.
“Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fourteen not six, which platform?”
“OK, miss-I’m-so-grown-up. Its platform two.” No sooner than she said that
an announcement was made: “Madcap Manor train due to leave in five
minutes time.” Sarah trotted off ahead of me at a brisk walk.
“Come on Molly, you’ll miss the train!” Miss the one and only train to
Madcap Manor now that is a good idea. I began walking v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y
towards platform two. Unfortunately we made it with plenty of time to
spare. Dang it. “Come along Ginny; lets find you a seat on the train.”
Smiled Sarah. “For the last time,” I said with gritted teeth, “I’m fourteen not
43
six and stop quoting stuff from Harry Potter! Next you’ll be saying the car
can fly!”

I said goodbye to Sarah and climbed on the train. All the carriages were
full except for one with a girl my age in it. “Is this seat taken? Can I sit
here?” I asked. “No you can sit there.” this girl whispered. She reminded
me of a mouse, all scrabbly and silent. I sat down and sighed. This was
going to be a long journey.

It was about Noon when I was awoken by an old lady with the food trolley.
“Anything from the trolley, my dears?” Aaaahh. Is it just me or is everyone
quoting Harry Potter stuff? Just then we got to the school, I climbed out
and grabbed my bags. I set off towards the school, I knew I was in Adam’s
house and got there OK but once inside I got lost. I turned around and
found my self looking at a middle-aged woman. “Let me guess. Molly
Wilson?” I nodded speechless. “You’re in room two follow me; I’m Mrs.
Henderson your head of house.” When we got to room 2 I pushed open
the door and surveyed my new home. It had two beds, wardrobes,
cupboards, desks and chairs. Great. I have to share with someone. Mrs.
Henderson excused herself and went away leaving me on my own. My
phone started to ring.
“Hello? Molly its Sarah.”
“OK jokes over. When are you coming to fetch me?”
“You’ve only been there five minutes, give it a chance.”
“Fine, but only till half term.”
“Well see how it goes. Bye.”

That phone call gave me knew hope. I only have to stay for six weeks. I
turned around and saw my new roommate. Duh duh dduuhh! Its mousegirl
from the train. “Hi again, I’m Molly. What’s your name?”
“Victoria” She whispered. Then the bell rang for tea. “Saved by the bell”, I
thought. I went down and fetched my tea, when I was half way through it
Mrs. Henderson clambered onstage.

“Welcome back. As part of the schools customs we plan a treat for fourth
form after their exams. Every year is different and this year they get to put
on a show of their choice!” All of the kids in fourth form started cheering. A
girl stood up and shouted to make her self heard. “As head girl, I propose
we hold a meeting after tea.” Immediately everyone started shovelling their
food down.

44
Ten minutes later I found my self in the common room and the meeting
began. “What shall we do?” said the head girl who Id learnt was called
Tessie.

“How about a concert?” I found myself saying. Everyone turned to look at

me. “Isn’t that just music?” a voice said.
“No, we did one at my old school you can do acting AND dancing AND
music.” I answered. “That’s a good idea” exclaimed Tessie, “But new
people never think of show ideas do they.” “NO” they chorused. “So well
say it was my idea, OK?” Everyone nodded. So did I but inside I was
seething. How dare they. Well, Ill show them, I wont work for their beastly
show and Ill make sure everything goes wrong, I thought.

45
 The Voyage
by Bethany Wood

“She’s getting worse!” cried David to his friend.

“OK. I’m on my way. I’ll be there A.S.A.P. Just hang on in there!” Rachel
said from the other end of the telephone. “I’ll tell Aaron.”
“OK. Hurry!” David said as he burst into tears. He put down the phone and
kneeled down beside his mother’s bed.
“It’ll fine. I’ll get better soon,” his mum said weakly.
“Rachel and Aaron are on there way. They’ll know what to do more than
me,” assured David.
“Don’t be silly. You’re doing a fantastic job,” she told him. There was a
knock at the front door.
“That’ll be them now. I won’t be long,” said David. He walked out of the
bedroom and along the hall to the front door. As he went to open the door,
the handle turned, and the door slowly opened.

David fell backwards onto the floor and the dog started to bark. Stood
before him was a tall dark figure. He gasped and the figure said in a deep
voice,
“Do not be afraid. I have come to help you. I have been informed of your
mother’s unknown illness and have come to tell you there is a cure.”
David looked frightened and bemused. Jake went silent and hid in the
corner.
“Well, do you want to know about this cure?” asked the figure.
“I…I… How do I know I can trust y…you?” David stuttered.
“I see you have no alternative as your mother’s condition is deteriorating.”
He was right.
“OK. Where, and what is this cure?” David asked.

46
“It is a very rare and powerful flower. It’s violet with white spots and a
yellow centre. It is very beautiful and can be found in Delamere,”
explained the figure.
“Where abouts?” asked David.
“Here’s a clue and you would do well to remember it: Round and round
you’ll have to look to get to the middle of your voyage,” said the figure.
David didn’t find this at all helpful. He put his hands over his face in
disappointment. The door shut. He stood up and ran to the window. The
dark figure was nowhere to be seen, there was only Rachel and Aaron
heading towards the bungalow. David opened the door once again and
invited them in.
“Sorry we took so long. Aaron took a while to get here,” explained Rachel.
“Are you OK? You’re looking a bit off colour. It’s not your mum is it?”
“No. She’s stable. But this strange thing has just happened…”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Aaron and Rachel simultaneously after hearing the
story.
“So do you really believe this figure thing then?” asked Aaron.
“If you ask me, you’re crazy!” said Rachel.
“I’m not! I swear. I saw him with my own eyes,” explained David.
“I believe you 100%!” exclaimed Aaron who was very gullible. “We’re best
friends! We’re supposed to believe and trust each other no matter what!”
“I suppose…” Rachel said, not yet fully persuaded.
“Well like he said, I haven’t got any other choice. Sorry, but I’ve got to go
with or without you,” said David.
“We’re coming. You can’t go on your own,” Rachel said.
“Are you coming Aaron?” asked David.
“You bet! I’m there!” shouted Aaron.
“OK!” said David. The three of them crept into his mum’s bedroom. She
was sound asleep. Her face was as white as a sheet, her soft skin very
cold to touch, and her long blonde hair looked brittle and had lost its usual
shine.
“We need to go as soon as possible. She looks really bad,” said Rachel.
“I know what you mean. Let’s get going.” said David.

They set off at 9 the next morning after a good night’s sleep, leaving
Aaron’s mum to stay with David’s mum. Rachel’s dad took them in his car
on the way to work. They thought it would be quicker on bike than on foot,
so they loaded them onto the bike carrier. It was a cold, frosty morning,
but the sky was blue with the sun shining down on them. In the car they
were planning their route and deciding where the flower was most likely to
be.
47
“Did the figure give you any sort of directions or tips?” asked Rachel.
“No I… Yes as a matter of fact it did! It went: round and round you’ll have
to look to get to the middle of your voyage. But I have no idea what it
means!” explained David.
“Let’s see,” said Rachel as she was the brainy one of the group. “Round
and round. That’s obvious as we are going round Delamere. To the middle
of your voyage, David, are you sure he didn’t say the end of your
voyage?”
“I’m sure,” he said. Rachel thought solidly the rest of the way, but still had
no solution. So they thanked her dad, and cycled off into the forest, taking
a map so that they didn’t get lost.

Up hills and down hills they went. At one point, Aaron got stuck in the mud.
That put a smile on everyone’s faces, everyone apart from Aaron’s that is.
The sun was getting warmer.
“I think it’s time for a break. We’ve been going for hours!” moaned Rachel.
“Only two. It’s not that long. But a break sounds like a good idea,” agreed
Aaron.
“We can’t! My mum needs us!” exclaimed David.
“We know! We’ll only have ten minutes tops, we just need a drink. Rach,
can you pass me the backpack please,” asked Aaron.
“OK. I suppose your right,” he said. They sat on a near-by bench and had
a drink of tea and a Kit Kat.
“Off we go again!” said Rachel. “Lets try this way!” She said as she led
them onto a pathway going through the middle of some trees. Big mistake!
There were lots of stones on the ground and when they tried to brake,
they just went skidding. They were bobbing up and down as though they
were riding down a flight of stairs. After another hour or so Aaron said,
“We must be in the middle of Delamere by now!”
“That’s it! The middle of our voyage is the middle of Delamere, I can’t
believe I didn’t work that out!” said Rachel, quite annoyed with herself.
She lifted out the map and pointed to the middle.
“Well we must be about here”, David pointed out, “So we’re not that far
away. I think I can work it out. Follow me!” Rachel and Aaron followed
David deeper into the forest through more and more trees and over more
rocks, until they got to the middle of their voyage.
“According to the map, this is the middle of Delamere,” explained David.
They dismounted their bikes and leaned them against a tree, and began
searching for the flower.
“Hang on, what colour is it?” asked Rachel. David thought.
“Violet with white spots and a yellow centre and apparently it looks really
pretty.” They returned to looking, and after quarter of an hour…
48
“Found it!” shouted David. The other two ran towards him. He reached
forward to pick it.
“No!” Rachel stopped him. “It could be poisonous for all we know.”
“Well how are we going to get it to my mum then?” questioned David.
Suddenly, the wind started blowing quite hard. The three of them turned
around. The figure had reappeared.
“Well done. You have found the cure for your mother. Now listen to me and
do exactly as I tell you,” instructed the figure. “On the count of three, you
shall all touch the flower, and you, your bikes and the flower will return to
David’s house.” Rachel and Aaron were as bemused as David first was.
“OK,” answered David. “Come on you two.”
“1, 2, 3…” and with that, they vanished.

“Whoa!” they all said as they landed in David’s living room. Aaron’s mum
came running from the bedroom.
“How did you…?”
“It’s OK mum I’ll explain later,” said Aaron. They took the flower to David’s
mum.
“What do we do with it now?” asked David. Aaron’s mum came to the
rescue but she still looked shocked. She boiled the flower in a pan. After 5
minutes it was ready.
“Well, here goes nothing,” said David nervously as he gave his mum the
flower soup. She ate it all, and everyone sat and waited. Half an hour went
by, and she was the same. Everyone went home in disappointment.
They’d gone to all that effort for no reason, and David’s mum was no
better off.

David woke up the next morning and went into his mum’s room. She’d
gone.
“What would you like for breakfast David?” this female voice said. He went
into the kitchen and his mum was dressed and stood up cooking egg and
bacon.
“What happened?” asked David.
“That flower worked. I’m fine again. It’s a miracle!” she exclaimed. She
gave him a hug. He called Rachel and Aaron and told them to come over
quickly. He let them in as soon as they arrived. They were amazed by her
speedy recovery.
“Thank you so much for all your help. I don’t know what I would’ve done
without you all.”

49
 Silver’s Not Good Enough…
by Joseph Palin

Bloody school

Alex wandered around the cold, empty corridor. An eerie silence hung in
the air as though nobody but him had ever existed. Alex thought that
school was bad enough in the daytime, but once everyone had left, it
became all the worse. Distant, uninviting shadows lurked around every
corner. Every horrific sound seemed to hang around him. Warning him?
Even his voice seemed to be raspy and strained.
Alex was only here because his computer had no longer got the internet
since his dad ‘altered’ the phone. So he had to do all his computer
homework at an ICT club now.
A menacing shadow, which almost oozed danger, appeared suddenly on
the cheap laminate floorboards. Alex spun around with terror in his eyes
and thundering in his heartbeat. Nothing stood in his path, nothing to fear.
His mind was playing tricks on him, surely. There’s nothing here he
reassured himself. There is absolutely nothing wrong.
He glanced at the large school clock, hanging proudly on the dark red
wall. 4:30. He was late. He hurried towards the door at the top end of the
corridor. His unease mounted as he pushed against the cool, wooden
surface, it was locked. He pushed again, over and over but it refused to
even move an inch. Feeling petrified, for a strange reason he couldn’t
quite put his finger on, he shouted for somebody to come and help him but
nobody came.
Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck
stood on end. He felt completely paralysed with terror. The icy breath of
the person behind him cut into him like a frozen knife. He slowly turned,
only to face nothing but the empty corridor.
Then he screamed as it plunged into him…
50
Going under…

Tom was sitting in his living room, on a Saturday morning, watching

television when he heard what had happened to his best friend. It was his
mum that told him, ‘Tom, Alex has had an accident,’
‘What, what’s happened?’ Tom asked with slight concern in his otherwise
confident voice.
‘Well,’ his mother struggled for the right words, ‘A javelin from the schools
equipment shed was, well, put into him.’
Tom sat up on the brown leather sofa that he had been lying on for the
past half hour.
‘Is he alright? And what do you mean by put into him?’
‘Oh, he’s fine, not fine exactly after… what happened and it was thrown-
into his upper leg.’
It was then that the screaming began.
‘Can you hear that? Tom asked, quite puzzled. Without waiting for an
answer, Tom burst out of the front door and sprinted towards the
screaming, his feet pounding on the rough concrete surface. Surprisingly,
he found himself standing by the local pond. He stared at the murky green
surface, almost hypnotised by the reflections, when a girl burst up through
the mixture of muddy water and pondweed. She sent huge waves gushing
in all directions, destroying the breathtaking mirror that the pond had been
only seconds before. She quickly swam to the edge. Tom helped her out
and she promptly vomited up the filthy water that congested her lungs and
gut. She fell to her knees, coughing and spluttering, and started breathing
deeply.
‘Are you Okay?’ Tom asked when the girl was breathing normally again,
then he realised that he recognised her.
‘You’re Amy Tyler aren’t you?’ Amy went to Tom’s high school.
She nodded. ‘What happened to you?’
She leaned against one of the trees that stood near to the pond and told
him.
‘I was standing near the edge of the water, watching the ducks and
feeding them a bit of bread. Then I felt a blow to the back of my head, I
screamed and I must have collapsed. The next thing I knew I was being
thrown in, it was the cold water that woke me I think,’ she stopped for a
second and breathed in deeply, and then she continued. ‘When I went
under I swallowed a lot of water, I was really shocked. But I swam back
up. I’m so glad you’re here, I was afraid that he could still be hear’ she her
voice was still shaky, from the cold, from fear?

51
Tom had no idea what was going on, something strange was happening-
but Tom had no idea how strange it would get, or that soon it would be his
turn, to be the one in trouble. Things were about to get a lot worse.

It’s a Long way down…

Casey Williams jumped nimbly onto the garage roof from the old, mossy
fence.
There was a thud that echoed into the night air as his feet collided with the
rough surface. His breath appeared as a cloud that hung in front of his
face, before mingling with the air and disappearing. He sprinted towards
the edge and leapt. The wind seized him as he glided through the empty
space 8ft above the ground for just a second before plummeting down to
the solid ground below him. He landed gracefully on a bank of grass and
rolled to avoid the shock of a still landing. The grass was wet and it
soaked Casey’s clothes, but he didn’t care. He was focusing on what he
was doing. He was the schools high jump record holder, so he practised
jumping at every opportunity he got. On the weekends, every night he
came to this park where the abandoned garage stood. He climbed up
using the fence that marked the edge of the park, and jumped down for
around half an hour. He needed the practice, ‘after all,’ he thought ‘Billy
Johnson is nearly at my standards and he’s 2 years younger than me! I
can’t loose my edge.’
He climbed up once more, walked to the edge, and…
He felt something cold on his shoulder. Then the whisper,
‘Goodbye…’
Then everything went black.

Tom

Tom sat in the living room staring at the News Paper that he held in his
hand.
There was an article mentioning Alex, Amy, and another boy, a year 11
called Casey.
The article read:

‘Three students at Hollow Lane high have been injured by a person whose
identity is still unknown. Casey Williams, Amy Tyler and Alex Rowlingson
were all injured on Friday and Saturday this week. Police are investigating
weather these attacks were random, or possibly targeted towards this
school. Hollow Lane High will be closed until the enquiry is finished…’

52
Tom felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He read the screen; caller
unknown. He pressed the answer button and held the phone to his ear.
‘Tom…’ A voice he didn’t recognise rasped, ‘You’re next…’ The call was
disconnected as the person that stood on the street outside Tom’s house
pressed an orange button on their phone.
That night Tom sat on his bed in his room, thinking about Alex, Amy and
Casey. His mum called to him from downstairs,
‘I’ll see you later’ she was going out for dinner with his dad who had just
come back from a business trip in Chicago.
‘Bye!’ He bellowed back.
Tom studied the list he had just written about Alex;
Alex Rowlingson, good at sport, holds school record in javelin despite only
being in year 9. Student at Hollow Street high, my best friend. Injured with
a javelin.
Tom stopped; Alex held the school record for the javelin which he was
injured with! He wrote that down too.
Amy Tyler, student at Hollow Street high. Year 10, loves, and holds the
school record in, swimming…
Swimming, and she was thrown into a pond. Tom was sure he had the
pattern but he thought about Casey as well, but he didn’t know much
about him. Tom made a list about him anyway.
Casey Williams, year 11, goes to Hollow Street high. Holds the school
record for High jump.
But how was injured? Tom ran down stairs and found the paper. He
searched through it and found the article. He then read it once again.
‘Three students at Hollow Street high… Alex is in a stable condition… Amy
recalls her shocking assault…
Finally he found what he was looking for near the end of the article;
Casey Williams was pushed off the roof of an abandoned garage in a park
near the school by possibly the same attacker that injured Alex and Amy.
So far none of these incidents have been fatal but the question remains,
will there be a fourth attack…’
Tom felt a lump form in his throat as he understood the words on the
mobile phone, you’re next. He was the fourth victim. He also understood
Casey’s attack, high jump- he was pushed of a garage roof! The attacker
was sick, but why target people with school records? And in a way that
relates to them?
Tom suddenly had a thought; I hold the record for shot put.
Tom’s window shattered sending shards of glass flying across his room,
each piece a small and deadly rainbow of colours as light shone through
them. Tom rolled onto his bedroom floor with a thud a second before a pile
of incredibly sharp little pieces of death rained down onto his bed. Tom
53
risked a glance over the bed and to his horror he saw a shot put right
where his head had been. Thank god I rolled, he thought.
Sat in the tree two meters away from Tom’s window the attacker found the
second shot put in his hoody pocket and fired.
Tom saw the shot put soar through the empty window where the glass had
been and he managed to dodge it by about a centimetre, but it smashed
the mirror behind him, covering the floor. He looked out of the window and
saw a boy in a grey hoody in the tree outside, his face masked in the
shadows. The hooded person threw two more shot puts but with poor
accuracy, one hitting the wall and the other landing in the garden, and
clambered down. Tom ran downstairs and was out of the front door just
before the hoody got down from the tree.
The moment the hooded boy landed, Tom threw a punch that hit him
straight in the face, and then lashed out with his foot. The boy was brought
down. Tom pulled the boys hood down, recognised him as Billy Johnson,
and howled in pain…

Billy Johnson

Robert William Johnson was charged with assault and attempted murder
despite his protests that he hadn’t tried to kill anyone. When questioned
he told the court officers that he wasn’t the attacker. They didn’t believe
him but, strangely, it was true. He was framed; the attacker came to him
because he came first in the long jump. He just turned up at Billy’s house,
when his mum and dad were in town, holding three razor sharp darts. He
walked in through the unlocked front door and entered Billy’s living room
whilst he was reading.
‘Always second, never first no, not good enough for first, not ever!’ he
whispered to himself, quite deranged. He threatened Billy with the darts
and Billy was forced to haul 4 shot puts (he had no idea where the boy
had got them!), up into the tree using only a small stepladder. In the end
he took off his hoody and pushed it up first. He then threw them, trying not
to hit Tom. He then scrambled down and Tom hit him, and pulled off his
hood. And as Tom saw who he was, the psychopath threw the dart into his
shoulder, and ran. Tom didn’t know what had happened to him; he simply
passed out with shock. Billy ran into the house and rang “999”. The
ambulance and the police arrived at the same time both sirens wailing. To
Billy’s surprise, the police took him as well. He was arrested and no matter
how much he protested, nobody would believe him. He didn’t know what
would happen to him next.
Tom sat up in his bed at home a week later. His dad had already explained
what had happened;
54
‘You were brought here after someone threw a dart at you,’ he said when
Tom first woke in hospital, ‘but they’ve found out that it was just shock, and
that no serious damage had been done, we can take you home now, if you
feel ready.’
‘Yes, but what happened to Billy, the guy who attacked me?’ Tom asked,
most of the confidence had slipped out of his voice.
‘They arrested him; he’ll probably be in one of those young offenders
prisons now, don’t worry.’
But Tom still thought that some things didn’t add up, like how Billy got the
dart into his shoulder, he wasn’t holding any. Tom was sure that things
were still wrong, he was sure, it wasn’t over yet.

The attacker sat at home in his room, pictures lay scattered on his bed.
Tom’s picture had writing on it; Gold – X. So had Alex’s, Amy’s, Casey’s,
and Billy’s. His own picture lay on the bed, it read; Silver, Silver, Silver,
Silver, Silver, Silver, Silver. Two pictures lay on his bed reading; ‘Gold,
Gold!’ and ‘Gold, Gold, Gold!!!’ These two deserve more than injuries, they
must have more punishments!!! More!
Murder slipped into the madman’s eyes.
Weeks later the charges were dropped against Billy, after more incidents
occurred and new evidence was found, he was saved. It was more than
can be said for the other two…

55
Detective Denzel and the Case
of the Malicious Marrow
by Carl Mackintosh-Rogers

As head of the detective force (by default), Hershel Walter Denzel had a
lot on his mind. Such as what he was having for dinner. His work was
interrupted when the chief constable strolled into his office.
“Denzel?”
“Yes, boss?” Denzel sighed.
“I’ve got a new case for you. Well, it’s only your first, but anyway. I
want you to investigate this mysterious spate of deaths in the village.”
The constable walked out, leaving Denzel to prepare for his first
case.
Denzel was tall for his age, had deep, brown eyes and a small
stubbly beard. He wore a scruffy brown coat, denim jeans, and black
hobnail boots. He was also unable to obtain life insurance.
Today was Thursday. As he looked for things to do, he noticed the
new market that had opened in the square. He decided to pay a visit.
As he walked through, an old man cried offers out loud.
“Special offer! Marrows at half the price when they’re double the
price! Grab a bargain while they’re still here!”
Denzel pushed his way through the crowd towards the stall. Feeling
that the offer was a good deal, he handed over a ten pound note, and
bought a pear and a marrow. He was surprised when he looked at his
change to see a couple of silver ten pence pieces and a two pound coin.
Feeling very tired from his “exciting day”, Denzel decided to go to
bed.
The next day, he decided to stay at the station and look through the
files of those who had been murdered. Just as he was about to sit down
with his coffee, he noticed that there was only three case files. One for

56
Mrs. Beeton, And two for Mr and Mrs. Halloway. He found it strange how
the married couple had both died. Delving deeper into the file, he noticed
that the estimated time of death was also the same. So, logically, this
meant that they were both murdered at the same time. Looking at the time
of day, he noticed it was just after dinner. So could it have been something
they’d eaten? With these thoughts running through his mind, he went out
to have lunch at the “Big Littleton Café”.
As the district council were insistent that all produce grown locally
couldn’t be used for businesses, most of the things on the menu were
quite expensive. Looking down, he saw that a simple sausage and mash
was £5.49. He’d have to have a word with the council.
Back at the station, he decided to find a motive for these murders. If
they were murders.
After hours of extensive thinking, nothing came to him. He only had 10
minutes left until he had to go back to his flat. So, he doodled for a while,
and then headed home.
“So,” said Denzel, talking to himself. He’d just got back from the
station. “The only evident connection is…well…I dunno…er…” He stopped
for a moment. “Ah, that was it. They all died on a Wednesday. No,
Thursday. I think… What happens on Thursdays?”
As he ate his tin of cold baked beans, he stumbled upon an old
paper bag containing a marrow, and a conspicuous looking powder.
“The market!” he exclaimed “The market…YES! That’s it! But what’s
that?”
He looked down at the powder. Part of him knew not to touch it, but
curiosity got the better of him. He dipped in his finger and smelt the
powder. Nothing. Then, he ate it.

* * * * *

3 days later

Denzel lay in the immaculate ward of Greater Largeton hospital. After two
days of unconsciousness, and one of violent vomiting, Denzel had finally
come round. He was lucky to be alive.
When Denzel failed to turn up at the station, police sent two officers
round to see where he was. Now, you may be asking yourself why those
police officers weren’t doing their job. Well, the answer is they had nothing
better to do.
While searching the flat, police were shocked to find a copy of
WOW! magazine in his flat. They were even more so when they found
Denzel’s body in the bath. They also found the marrow on the floor, next to
57
the paper bag. They sent it to be analysed at the forensic lab, while
rushing the detective to hospital.
The results came back the next day. Denzel had been poisoned. He
was kept in intensive care, and pumped full of antibiotics.
The question still remained however. Who was responsible for these
deaths?
A week after Denzel was discharged, Denzel knew what to do. He
headed for Mr. Greendale’s house. Mr. Greendale was an elderly who ran
the vegetable stall in the market.
“Mr. Greendale?” he shouted as he burst into the house.
Looking round, he saw nothing. He ran to the back door, just in time
to see Mr. Greendale cleverly putting a tablet into the apples he was
growing.
“Mr. Greendale, I’m arresting on suspicion of seven counts of
murder. You have the right to remain silent; however anything you do say
may be taken as evidence and used against you in court.”
Denzel was pleased with himself. He’d never remembered that
before.
He took him to the station. After questioning, it was revealed why he
had poisoned his produce.
Mr. Greendale poisoned the produce, thinking he could send the
people who died to heaven. He thought, in turn, that he would get sent to
heaven for “helping” people on their journey.
“How very bizarre.” Denzel told himself, eating a pear. Suddenly
remembering where he’d got it (and how old it was), he ran to the kitchen
to wash it down, and then to the doctors.
And that was how Denzel solved his first case.
Sort of.

58
 Antboy
by Matthew Nowell

As Antboy scuttled nimbly across the road, the huge iron fist plummeted into
the tarmac like a knife through butter. Tarmac flew across the isolated street.
The robot strode towards the building, the building where Antboy was perched,
while he thought of his next move. Suddenly a car flew through the air and
smashed into Antboy; he deflected it off his super hard exoskeleton. The car
flew into the robots face. The robot tumbled to the ground with an almighty
roar. Antboy dashed across the uneven ground towards the robot. The robot
stood up. It looked around. It couldn’t see Antboy. Suddenly Antboy jumped
into the robot’s face from a tree. The robot was slightly bedazzled, and
staggered backwards. It tore Antboy from its face and clenched it’s
humongous iron fists around his body. Antboy squirmed around unable to
escape. In desperation Antboy chewed through the robots wires in its hand.

The robot saw what Antboy was doing and threw him away, effortlessly. But
it was too late, as the robot threw Antboy the robot’s hand came off. The
robot lumbered around, clutching its wrist, where the hand had once been.
The robot roared with anger.

Antboy got up from where he had landed. He seemed to have been thrown
into a park. There were lots of lovely flowerbeds, trees and a lake. The lake
gave Antboy an idea. As the robot charged towards him, its immense feet
obliterated the flowerbeds completely. Antboy braced himself for the huge
impact. Antboy shouted, the robot roared. The robot smashed into Antboy,
who had curled himself up into a ball in front of the lake. The robot and
Antboy went flying into the water. There was an almighty splash; sparks flew
into the air as the icy water smashed the robots electrical circuits.

59
There was a moment of silence. Antboy clawed his way back to the surface.
He gasped for air and slowly swam to the waters edge and crawled out. He
was shivering all over.

Suddenly there was a huge bang, followed by people screaming. There was
an almighty bellow. Antboy looked up and said,

“Not again!!!”

60
 Silver Skin
by Simon James

I hurled the phone into the corner of the room where it ricocheted
feebly off the skirting board onto a pile of magazines. I gritted my teeth and
clenched my fist, kicking at my bed post in anger. No answer again. Another
withheld number with nobody to answer for them self. I sat down on the
edge of the bottom bunk, trying not to think about it. I wasn’t going to let it get
me worked up – I had school to go to.
“Who was on the phone?” Tony asked, walking into the room in his
boxers, a slice of toast in his hand and his blue school shirt half buttoned.
“No answer again,” I told him, chucking him his creased grey trousers
from on top of the X Box. “It’s probably some idiots from school.”
“We could ring the police,” Tony suggested, attempting to hold his
toast in his mouth whilst jumping into his trousers.
I laughed, both at his comment and what he was doing. “What’re
they gonna do? Just about what they’ve ever done for me. A big fat nothing.”
Tony didn’t say anything, grabbing his Umbro school bag from beside
the door and chucking books inside with about as much consideration as he
had for the magazines, which were littering the floor and he was using as a
means of sliding from one side of the room to the other.
“If it continues I’ll just have to get myself a new sim card,” I said,
looking into the mirror on the wardrobe and straightening my collar.
He nodded and asked “you getting any breakfast?”
I shook my head. “Not hungry. That phone call’s made me lose my
appetite.”
We both continued getting ourselves ready for school in silence,
throwing books, stationery and clothing into piles and heaving the lot into
our battered school bags. Five minutes later, we’d said good bye to Tony’s
Mum and we were on our way out of the door to the bus stop.

61
 The wind blew around us, litter flying around our feet like tiny
inquisitive creatures. I checked my watch and made towards the bus stop at
the end of the street with a little more pace. The driver was not the sort of
person to wait, even if he could see you coming.
Just as we reached the shattered shell that was a bus “shelter”, it
arrived. I dug my crumpled bus pass from my trouser pocket and waved it in
front of the driver’s face as I stepped onto the vehicle, grateful for the central
heating. We walked down the middle of the aisle, greeting a few people we
knew and sat together near the back. I looked at the bus pass in my hand:
Christopher Wein, aged 14, it read. I wished it could tell me more. I slipped it
quickly into my bag and Tony dug his iPod out, which kept us entertained for
the rest of the journey.

An hour later, we were in our first lesson of the week. English. Mr.
Hine was a nice man, and he seemed to keep me interested as much as
seemed possible with a subject I found intensely boring. I never thought I
would write a persuasive text in my own time, so it just seemed very, very
pointless, but I tried my best. The best bit of the lesson was when Sheila
Roberts’ phone went off and everybody’s train of thought seemed to vanish
as Ultra Beat’s “Pretty Green Eyes” blared from her tiny pink handbag. Hine
had just shook his head to himself, as if it would take up too much of his
hard-earned energy to tell her off.
The bell rung, and everybody rushed to put their books into their
bags. “Laters,” I said to Tony, as he had PE next. I walked out of the classroom
and fought my way down the stairs between the students rushing about,
shouting and yelling. A used ball of chewing gum narrowly missed my head
from above. “Get off me, Brian!” a girl shouted. I pushed my way through a
crowd of stationary Year 7s who didn’t seem to be planning on vacating any
time that week, and squeezed my way into the ground corridor when I reached
the bottom.
Two corridor’s later and I reached the art room. Miss Cudmore was
sat at her desk at the back, and she smiled at me as I stumbled in. “Nice
weekend Chris?” she asked, pronouncing every syllable precisely with her
voice as she always did.
“So-so,” I replied, walking over to her drawers and searching for my
painting. “What about you?”
“Oh yes thanks dear! It was wonderful! My husband and I went...” my
ears shut themselves off at the mention of her husband. It always ended up
her telling me what a romantic evening she had had and what a wonderful
man her husband was, and quite frankly, I couldn’t care less what the two of
them got up to. I found my painting and took it over to a desk with a set of
water colours, a pot of water and a brush. I stared at it. It was a large water-
62
colour image of a garden that I had been working on for weeks, whilst Tony
and the others were doing PE.
“... and we just lay in the field and stared up at the stars.” She sighed.
“He’s such a wonderful man.”
I held back a wretch and got to work on the painting. There was still a
lot to improve upon, but the main body was there. I pulled a white line carefully
through the water of the pond with my brush, creating a realistic light reflection.
I brought my head back to admire this handiwork. Whilst my head was back,
I caught out of the corner of my eye a boy running across the field through
the window. I turned my head to look. Oh. He was playing rugby. PE. I couldn’t
stop watching them, pass the ball from one to the other. Flying through the
mud. Laughing with the lads. I laughed too. I felt like I was there, adrenaline
rushing through me as if I were playing too. But I wasn’t I never had done. I
must have been staring longingly at them for a while because when I turned
my head I saw Mrs Cudmore looking at me sadly, with pity in her eyes. I
pretended not to have seen her and continued my painting.
It was a bright summer’s day in the garden in my painting. I had
chosen to do that because it was peaceful, and Mum had once said gardens
made people happy. The picture was very vivid, and every time I added to it,
I seemed to become more real. I could almost hear the birds in the sky, and
I stared at the water for any sign of life beneath. The trees on all sides stood,
proud and tall like bouncers, blocking the way in to any unwanted trespassers.
I was staring round, breathing in the fresh, pure air, walking through the
flower beds which stood out so brightly, making the whole place seem magical.
There was a refreshing breeze and yet the sun was warming me to the core,
and I felt so relaxed – so at home... The birds fluttered around my head,
tame as anything, singing to me. I looked towards the trees and she was
there. Mum was walking through the trees, smiling. I walked towards her,
arms outstretched. She did the same. So warm. We were nearly together
now, pushing our way through the long grass to become reunited...
“Chris?” I was back to reality. In the stuffy classroom, with the smell of
watercolours creeping into my nostrils from the pallet of wet paints on the
desk in front of me. I had been day dreaming. “I said how are you going on
Chris?” Mum... “Chris?” Tears welled in my eyes, a lump appeared in my
throat... and I pretended I hadn’t heard Miss Cudmore. “Are you alright dear?”
My heart pounded, I gripped the desk in anger...
Mumbling something about needing the toilet, I ran out of the room,
leaving her gawping in her chair. I bolted along the corridor and into the next,
hoping I wouldn’t run into some busy body who would stop me for running or
being out of lessons. I looked left, inside the science prep-room. A woman
who I didn’t know looked inquisitively at me, but I didn’t care. I skidded along

63
the floor and turned a corner, relief rushing over me as I reached the flaking
door to the boys’ toilets.
Could I feel it happening? I don’t know. This was how I always felt
before it happened; I don’t know if it was just how upset or angry people felt
or whether it was a special sensation. I ran through the boy’s toilets, checking
my reflection in the cracked mirror above the chipped sinks as I passed. Not
wanting to risk anybody else coming in and seeing me, I pushed into a cubicle,
knocking the toilet roll off the holder with a jerk of my arm as I entered. I held
the top of the sink, trying to remember what she had told me – keep calm,
deep breaths, think about something else... I looked down into the water in
the toilet to see my face... imagine a beach... heart pounding... deserted
beach... I put my hand on the top of the toilet – gripped it, and heard the
crunching sound as the metal crushed under my fingers. It had happened.
*
“It happened again today,” I told Tony, whispering under the noise of
Century FM. I was sat on the bus, planning the essay I had to write that night
for History about my views on the Hiroshima bombing.
“What? The old...” he mouthed the words and I nodded. “Blimey
mate, what happened?”
I told him about painting in the art room and thinking about my mother
and having to rush down to the toilets. His mouth hung open wide like an
expectant train tunnel, gobsmacked as I told him the whole story. He only
spoke after I had finished.
“You’ve gotta try and keep it calm mate. Like she told you, you’ve
gotta...”
“I know all about it!” I snapped, annoyed with him. “But it’s easy
enough for you to say that. Once you’ve got excited and you’re heart’s
pounding so much, there doesn’t seem to be anything you can do to prevent
it from happening.”
He sat there in silence and I continued to plan my Hiroshima essay,
not getting much further than the basic plan of the structure. I had almost
scrunched up the few notes I did have into a ball and hurled it across the bus
in frustration when we arrived at our stop.
“Good day at school?” Tony’s mum asked before we had even
stepped through the door. I looked at Tony and he smirked.
“Yeah,” I lied.
I put my shoes neatly together by the front door, where I always put
them, and trudged up the carpeted stairs behind my friend. His shoes were
still on, and although it was only Monday, mud was already caked across the
back of them. I stared back at my glistening black shoes and sighed.
“What we doing now?” he asked me when I walked into our bedroom.
His bedroom.
64
 “I’ve got a History essay to do,” I told him, flinging my bag in the
corner among the weekend’s clothes strewn messily across our floor. We
both stared at each other, then at the X Box, then at each other again. “Half
an hour can’t hurt,” I told him, but I didn’t need to: he had already switched it
on.
Two and a half hours later and we were still firing at other gamers
across the world, shooting our way to the top of the leader board. We had a
right laugh, Tony and I, and it made me forget about all of my problems, so
much so that I had completely forgotten about...
BRING! BRING!
My phone brought me back to earth and was vibrating atop the
magazines I had thrown it on that morning, the ring tone screaming out of it
speakers. Blimey, it could make some noise for a little thing. I dropped the
smooth controller, forgetting all about Call of Duty and looked at the screen:
number withheld.
“Same again?” Tony asked. He had (amazingly) stopped playing too
and was looking at me, troubled. I nodded and threw it to him, still ringing.
“You answer it,” I said.
“Why me?” he asked, staring as if the phone as if any moment it was
about to sprout sharp teeth and bite him.
“Because... whoever it is might be listening for my voice. This’ll confuse
them.” It was a sound argument.
He picked up the phone gingerly, held it to his right ear as he pressed
the button and said as casually as he could: “hello?” He handed it me back.
“Hung up,” he said.
I punched the stack of magazines violently, sending them cascading
over into what now looked like a bombed newspaper factory. I got up and
walked angrily towards the door of the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Tony asked. He sounded worried.
“Bit of fresh air,” I said.
Five minutes later, I was sat on the bench in the village park, my head
in my hands, thinking. I had been stupid, getting worked up in school, thinking
about Mum - I had to let it go. She wasn’t coming back. I had to realise that.
No. I couldn’t give up. She wouldn’t have given up if she had been in my
situation. Or would she? I felt like I didn’t know anything about her any more,
almost as if she had betrayed me by not returning, although I knew that it
probably wasn’t her fault.
I was getting agitated and I didn’t need it happening again so I walked
over to the pond in the middle of the park, staring down at my reflection in
the water. I turned away when it started to make me feel worse. I was just
about to start walking back when my phone went off in my pocket. Without

65
looking at the screen I yanked it out, pressed receive and yelled “WHAT THE
HELL DO YOU WANT!?”
“Christopher? Is everything okay?”
Oh god.
“Sorry Mrs. Cockrum, I thought it was someone else,” I tried to sound
apologetic and casual at the same time. It didn’t work.
“Who, dear?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I explained, kicking the damp grass at my feet with
annoyance at myself for not checking the screen of my phone to see who
had been calling. “I’ve been getting some prank calls or something with
nobody speaking on the other end.”
“Why don’t you use another phone and ring it back to see who it is?”
she suggested.
“There’s no number,” I told her.
“Oh.” She sounded worried. “Well, we’ll try and sort it out when you
get back. Where are you anyway?”
“Park.”
“Well, tea is ready in five minutes.”
“Cheers Mrs. Cockrum,” I said gratefully.
“I’ve told you, call me Debbie,” she said, putting the phone down.
She had never tried to be my Mum in what was nearly two years that
I had been living with her, and I was very grateful for that. She was there
looking after me and everything just like a real son, but she didn’t try to fill
that gap that she knew she couldn’t. Most other children in my situation
would have been shipped off to a foster home, but my best mate’s mum
agreed to have me stay with them, and the social services people never
found any reason for me to have gone somewhere else.
I opened the door to the house and was instantly hit with the amiable
smell of her homemade soup. I took my coat off and put my shoes neatly by
the door again. I looked at them – I had put them like a guest would. Was I
really at home here?
“Come and sit down Chris,” she called from the kitchen. “Tony and
Leanne are coming down in a minute.”
Leanne was Tony’s sister. She’d never really said much to me since I
had moved in with them – I don’t think she had been too happy about the
arrangement, but she was usually out socializing to have to put the effort in
to make civil conversation with me.
I went and helped Mrs. Cockrum lay the table despite her objections.
I couldn’t help feeling like I owed her something. She didn’t have to do what
she did for me. Tony and Leanne came into the room as I put the ketchup
and salt shaker in the middle, and we all sat in our usual places. Leanne was
texting somebody under the table, apparently trying to hide her phone from
66
her mum. Tony asked me where I went. I told him as Mrs. Cockrum brought
the steaming soup over.
The meal was fantastic as it usually was. Not just the food but the
company too; we talked about lessons at school while we ate and Leanne
then evolved the conversation into asking her Mum if she could have a lift
into town the next day to see her boyfriend. Mrs. Cockrum raised her eyebrows
– apparently she didn’t think all too highly of Leanne’s latest entertainer.
I thanked her for the meal and to her protests tidied away the dishes.
I started to run the tap to start to wash them but she got up and turned it off,
telling me to go and do something for myself. I thanked her again and made
my way from the kitchen into the office where I flicked the computer on to
start my Hiroshima essay.
I hadn’t even written my introduction when I automatically did what I
always did when I was on a computer, flicking on the Internet and logging
onto Google. I clicked the news button typed in the space bar: “Tina Wein
found,” and although the same words appeared in the handy drop down
menu from previous searches I had made, I typed them in anyway just to
make sure. The broadband kicked into gear and a few seconds later I was
granted what I always was: No Results. I replaced the words with “Tina Wein
sighted,” and it told me no results. “Tina Wein hostage”. No results. “Tina
Wein alive”. No results. “Tina Wein returned”. No results.
“You do know if she’d been found, you’d be the first to know,” a voice
said behind me and I felt Tony’s supportive hand on my shoulder.
I nodded. It had been almost two years since my Mum’s disappearance
when I had changed houses and started living with the Cockrums. I had
never forgotten that day. She had woke me up as she always did, dragged
me into the shower and asked me what I wanted on my sandwiches in my
packed lunch like always. I had had a cherry yoghurt for breakfast and she
had waved me off out the door as I walked to school, having lived much
closer then. I had returned home from school at the usual time of about 3:30
to find a deserted house. I wasn’t worried – she had said she had been
going shopping. She never came home. I rang the police and they said they’d
look for her and not to worry. I worried for the next three months about her,
still thinking though there was a great chance of her return with an excuse
we would laugh about in years to come. But I never saw her again.
I broke down. Tears were rolling down my face from just thinking about
the loss of my mother. Tony shut the door and turned to the computer, logging
the thing off. “She’s gone Tony,” I sobbed, hugging him, tears dampening the
shoulder of his jumper. “She’s ... gone...” The computer stopped making the
humming noise as it turned off, the screen going black so I could see my
reflection in it. I watched myself as for the second time that day, my pulse
rate increased with my anguish and my skin transformed into a shiny, silver
67
metal. The light reflected from my skin which was like an all over suit of
armour, and the tears ran down my rock hard neck.

15th October 2008:

I was woken up on the Wednesday morning by my phone ringing beside

me. It had been two days since the last mysterious phone call, and as I was
only semi-awake I had forgotten for a minute all about receiving them so I
reached over to my bedside cabinet to pick up my mobile and answer it.
“Just leave it Chris,” Tony advised. He was stood up and he wasn’t
dressed yet, but he was attempting to give the room a bit of a tidy – he must
have had some kind of bribe from his mum. “Withheld again.”
And now I was properly woken up. I was back into the life of Chris
Wein, and it was like jumping into an ice bath after an hour of being on a sun
bed. Sleep was a nice break from it all.
Despite knowing what would happen and what Tony had said, I couldn’t
help myself from picking it up and answering it – maybe they’d cough or
something. At least then I’d know there was definitely someone to base my
anger on, rather than just a silent phone call.
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
A man’s voice. Possibly intelligent? Middle aged? Nervous?
My eyes opened wide and I clicked my fingers eagerly at Tony, pointing
rapidly at the phone to show somebody was on the other end.
“Who’s speaking please?” I asked.
“I am sorry for calling you so frequently this last week or so... I... couldn’t
find the words...”
“What? What is it!? Have you found my Mum!? Is she okay!?”
“No Chris, I am sorry, but that is not why I am calling you.”
My heart sank. How had I become so hopeful in just a matter of
seconds? It could have been absolutely anything and yet I automatically
assumed it was about my missing mother. Then I realised he had said my
name.
“Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“Do not worry. It is one of the only things I do know about you Chris. I
wish I knew more.”
“Who are you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“What do you want from me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME!?”
68
 “Because I helped choose it,” he answered simply.
...
No.
No way.
...
Bull.
I didn’t say anything, waiting for him to slip up.
“I am your father, Chris,” he spoke, confirming his implication.
I didn’t believe him. Not for a second. Did I heck. It was a wind-up. It
had to be. Why would my father come out of the woodwork now after all this
time? Now that I was living with my friend. Starting to get on with my life
again after my Mum’s disappearance. I had never even met my father and
this couldn’t be him!
“I smell wind-up,” I accused, snidely.
“Who is it?” Tony whispered, not wanting to intrude upon the
conversation and yet obviously desperate to know who had said what on the
other end of the call which was making my blood boil.
The caller continued to speak. “Your mother was Tina Wein. She had
long black hair. She was a vegetarian. She lived at number 16, Queen’s
Street. She liked to wear...”
“NO! SHUT UP!!” I yelled down the phone, glad that Mrs. Cockrum
had left early for work that morning. “JUST SHUT UP!! WHAT MAKES YOU
THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO TALK ABOUT MY MOTHER!? WHAT
GIVES YOU THE RIGHT!!!???”
“Because together,” he spoke, softly but assertively. “We brought a
new life into the world. One I want to meet.”
I hung my head. Prank or not, this was not something to be discussed
on the phone. It was a conversation to be made face to face.
“Where? When?” I sighed.
“Obviously I am not going to make you get in a car so I can drive off
with you. Is 4:00 in town today after school finishes convenient for you?”
I grunted confirmation.
“Four O’Clock. Subway sandwich bar. Your town. I look forward to it,”
he said, with an air of finality.
Beeeeeeeeep.
I hurled my phone on my bed in overflowing frustration, and only then
did I see my reflection in the wardrobe mirror opposite. My skin rippled into a
silver like armour once again, like a robot who looked entirely human except
for his metal skin colour.
“Who was it?” Tony demanded, staring at me uneasily.
“Some lowlife,” I muttered. “I’m going into town after school, so I won’t
be on the bus.”
69
 He knew I was lying, but like the friend he was, he continued to get
dressed in silence.
*
I couldn’t decide on the pace to walk through the town on my way to
Subway. I wanted to get there more than anything in the world to see what
the guy had to say for himself, and yet I was scared of what he might say. My
mum had always dismissed any talk of my father, only saying that he was an
idiot and that he couldn’t live up to any of his responsibilities. Why had he
left? I didn’t remember a thing about him, and I didn’t even know if he had left
before or after I was born.
I got there and hesitated outside the door to the sandwich bar. Did I
really want to do this? I then realised that even if I didn’t, I could not walk
away. Now I’d come this far. It would eat at me forever, so I walked in and
looked around. There were only four people in there. There was a girl I
recognised from school stood at the counter paying for a sandwich. There
was a middle aged couple leaning over the table and kissing in the middle of
the room, and there was a man sat by himself, drinking coffee and reading a
newspaper. He looked up as I walked into the room.
I stood there in front of the door which swung shut, taking him in. He
was a tall and skinny man who looked to be in about his mid-thirties. He had
short brown hair and a stubbled chin and a pair of spectacles balancing over
the end of his nose which he was looking over at me. He was wearing a
leather jacket over a black and red checked jumper and a pair of jeans that
looked similar to a pair of Tony’s that lay somewhere on our bedroom floor
amongst the debris. He had a silver coloured watch and some “white” Fila
trainers which looked like they had seen much better days. His face looked
sunken and tired and yet when he saw me, his eyes lit up and he smiled.
“You alright mate?” the guy behind the counter asked me – I must
have been standing there looking at this man for a good half minute like a
dunce. I ignored him and walked slowly towards the guy, dragging my feet
idly along the tiled floor.
“Are you... him?” I asked him, trying not to look at his smiling face.
He nodded curtly.
I sat down in the chair opposite him and as I did so he folded the
newspaper and laid it upon the table next to his coffee cup. I stayed sat
there, and so did he, looking at me, like he was taking me in as I had been
him.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not my dad.”
He still said nothing, and reached into the inside-pocket of his brown,
leather jacket. He pulled out an old, worn photograph and passed it to me
across the desk. I stared at it intently. There he was, with a younger, less
tired face, beaming at the camera inside what looked like a small and cosy
70
living room. He was holding hands with a beautiful woman with long black
hair with a face who I recognised as my mothers. I quickly passed it him
back, not wanting to look at her face. I could feel my eyes watering already.
“So? A picture of you and her. Hmmm.... that must mean you’re my
dad,” I said sarcastically, and yet he didn’t look taken aback – he had probably
been expecting this response. “You could have been anyone – a mate, an
old boyfriend maybe, but not my...”
I stopped abruptly, watching him repeat the movement and take another
photograph out of his pocket. I didn’t want to, but I took this from him too and
stared at what was basically the same picture with one difference: my mum
was bigger than I had ever seen her, her huge stomach sagging almost as if
somebody had decided to shove a duvet up her top and she hadn’t noticed.
Of course, I could still have thought of a way round it if I wanted to.
Okay, she was pregnant, but that might not have been me. But she hadn’t
had any other kids. It may not have been his baby. But look at the way they
were holding hands. I knew it was still possibly not what he was making it out
to be, but looking into his face, I didn’t want to find an excuse because I
knew it was true, from the way he was looking at me, as if he had finally
found his missing piece. He was my Dad.
“Why now?” I asked him a lump forming in my throat. “Why have you
come back into my life now?”
He spoke for the first time, in the rough yet intelligent voice I
remembered from the phone call. “Son, I...”
“DON’T... call me that,” I said, anger burning up inside me although so
far he had done nothing that should have really upset me. “Only she gets
to... call me that.”
He looked at me with pity in his eyes. He must have known about her
disappearance. I decided then that I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to go
home and talk to Tony and to leave all this behind. I had to get this over and
done with as soon as possible.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
“To get to know you,” he answered slowly.
“You’ve had fourteen years to get to know me. What’s took you so
long? Been busy? And don’t you dare say you couldn’t find me – my mother’s
lived in the house we lived in since before I was born.”
“I was ... scared,” he said, staring now at the paper on the desk, not
looking me in the eye.
My heart skipped a beat. It was only then that I even thought of it. How
could I have forgotten? I was so stupid. He must have known about what I
became under stress and ran away. It had always been a possibility in my
mind, but him returning had made me forget until now – I had been more

71
thinking about him returning, and I had overlooked the obvious fact that he
must have known about my metal skin condition.
“Scared of what?”
“This,” he muttered, wiping a tear from his eye. “You, not wanting to
know me.”
“Can you blame me?!” The heads of the couple in the middle of the
room turned and looked. “Why did you leave!?” I demanded, gripping the
table with my hands.
“She... never told you?” he whimpered, like a sorry child.
I shook my head, still staring at him, still trying to work out what sort of
person he was.
“I couldn’t do it. The responsibility. A child.” He said those words as if
they were something alien. “It was too much of a big change. My job... my
friends... my experiments...”
“Experiments?” I enquired, bewildered.
“I am a man of science. I thought you would have known that. Did your
mother not tell you anything about me?”
“Continue,” I dismissed his question, knowing he would not like the
answer. “Why you left. A baby – of course it’s a big commitment, but when
there’s two of you bringing it up...”
“Ah, but that’s the thing,” he spoke, like a magician revealing the trick
up his sleeve. “I didn’t know your mother. Not really. Okay, we were taken
with each other. I liked her. She liked me. But... it was just a bit of fun you
know?” He sounded almost like he was trying to reassure himself more than
me. “Staying with her and you would have taken the rest of my life. And I
wasn’t prepared to do that.
“But I was stupid. I realised in my time away from you that a child, a
human child is the greatest gift one could imagine. Much more important
than work, or socializing, or a passion for science. I regretted leaving you,
and I decided I just couldn’t live without seeing you.”
“Oh, so, now I’m supposed to play happy families? My Mum’s gone,
ooh that’s handy, so you can just swoop in and grab me?” He tried to speak
but I continued. “You missed your chance, fourteen years ago!”
He reached his hand across the table to hold mine.
“Get off me! You disgust me! Running away at the first smell of
responsibility!” I was stood up now, my face must have been red, my heart
was pounding again, my veins throbbing all over my body. “Well you know
what? I’m glad you left! You don’t deserve my Mum! You’re not a tenth of the
person she was!”
I flung the table upside down, sending the coffee flying and splattering
all over the wall, the newspaper landing pathetically on the floor. “Hey!” the

72
man behind the counter shouted, rushing round to stop me doing any more
damage.
“Chris...” my dad said, standing up and slowly walking towards me,
one hand outstretched...
I felt my blood pumping round my body like a hoard of angry ants and
my heart beating against my rib cage like a frustrated drummer letting off
some steam. I knew it was going to happen any second. I had to get out of
there.
I dived under the Subway employee who tried to grab me and kicked
open the door, glad of the breeze that rushed at me. I took one last look back
at my dad and ran. I ran through town, past Smiths, over the cobbles, people
staring bewildered at me as I ran past them. As I ran past Boots’ window, I
saw my skin starting to change into a silver colour because of my anger. I
dived into a deserted alleyway between two shops so no one could see what
was happening to me. That I was turning into what Tony joked as “Chrome
Chris”. I walked to the end of the alleyway and turned around, checking
nobody had followed me. My foot stepped on a smashed beer bottle on the
floor and I picked up a shard of the glass, not caring about cutting my fingers
as I knew that it could not penetrate my now metal exterior.
I stared at my reflection in the glass. My face was the same shape,
and yet it gleamed silver, reflecting the light of the sun above me which was
poking cheekily through a miserable cloud. I tapped my cheek with my fingers,
and the two chinked together, making a sound similar to the one when Mrs.
Cockrum was carrying cups of teas on a tray and two of the mugs knocked
into each other. I moved my hand in front of me as easily as I did in my usual
form – the organic metal, which after fourteen years I still did not know the
name of, was super hard and yet super-flexible at the same time. Of course,
I knew all this. I had pondered my situation, hundreds of times before, but I
had never known the reason for why this happened to me. It had always
been “because I was special” from my Mum and as I got older, she had told
me that she simply didn’t know why when I got angry or upset I started to
resemble a guy from a popular film who had to walk up a yellow brick road to
find a heart. That she didn’t know had always been good enough for me, and
I hadn’t really bothered thinking too much about it - what did it matter why I
was like I was? Nothing could change it.
I dropped the shard of glass and it shattered again. I thought again
about why I was there. My father. I went mad with myself for even thinking
those words. He wasn’t my father. He was just the man that had made me
exist. My mother was my whole family. And now she was gone. Tears welled
in my eyes. I was alone. I might have unbreakable skin but my heart was
another matter. My father was trying to take her place. He just thought he
could come back into my life after all this time...
73
 “AAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!”
I punched the brick wall in front of me in anger – I don’t think I had
ever been as mad before. The brick crumbled under the strength of my fist
which I hardly felt, leaving a huge hole in the wall, revealing a small room full
of cardboard storage boxes which belonged to whichever shop it was. Nobody
was in there, luckily. I had to get home. To get on with my life and get as far
away from him as I could.
I couldn’t get a bus as I was and I couldn’t wait to change back as I
would not be calming down anytime soon, so I zipped my jacket up to my
nose then it was hard to make out my face and ran round the corner, across
the road on my way home...
SKRACRUNCH!
I only realised what had happened after it did. I was knocked forward
a few metres as I was taken by surprise. The car that had run in me had
buckled, and there was a huge mess of a hole in the bonnet where evidently
it had run in me. It looked like a happy meal box that somebody had run over
on a bike. The windscreen was all shattered and it lay motionless – apparently
running in me had destroyed its engine as well as its basic structure.
I stood staring at it for a moment, wondering what to do – was the
driver okay? Had he seen my face? Both questions were answered as a
moustached man half stepped half fell out of the car, pointing and shouting
“What the hell is going on!? What is this? What the hell have you done to
my...”
I was already gone. Man I must to remember to look both ways.

*
I told Tony everything that night. We were both lying on our bunks (I
was underneath) and he listened in silence as I told him the whole story. He
gasped when I told him about what had happened with the car.
“Are you sure he didn’t see your face?” He sounded worried.
“I dunno,” I answered, staring at the bottom of his bunk through the
darkness. “I didn’t recognise him and even if he did know me, no one’s going
to believe that he ran in me and destroyed his car are they?”
We both laughed.
“I don’t get it,” Tony said after a period of silence. “Did you not want to
see your Dad?”
“Not really. He’s a scum bag,” I replied without even thinking about it.
“You can’t know that already,” he said after a pause. “I’m not judging
you or anything Chris, but do you not think you over reacted a little? It doesn’t
actually sound like he did anything to offend you. Maybe he just wanted to
get to know you a little.”

74
 “Didn’t do anything to offend me!?” he shushed me because of my
raised voice, but not caring about anybody hearing me I continued: “He left
me when or before I was born! Why should I let him...”
Much to my surprise, I was interrupted:
“Maybe he’s changed Chris. At least give him a chance.”
That was the last thing said between us that night. And Tony’s last
sentence kept ringing in my head. “At least give him a chance.” Had I
overreacted? I didn’t know the slightest thing about the guy, maybe I had
been a bit unfair to judge him so soon. He was my Dad after all. Would it be
such a crime just to speak to him civily? “At least give him a chance.” Oh
well, I was pretty sure that he didn’t know my secret as he hadn’t mentioned
it at all. He had probably left before I was born. “At least give him a chance.”
The more I thought about our meeting the more I realised how quick to judge
him I had been – he hadn’t seemed such a bad guy really. “At least give him
a chance.” I started to regret what I had done now. I wished I could go back
to Subway six hours ago and start over our first meeting. “At least give him a
chance.”
I put my head under my pillow, as if that would block out Tony’s
plaguing voice in my head. It didn’t.

19th December 2008:

I didn’t make contact with him again for another two months. I mean,
how could I? His number had always been withheld and I didn’t exactly give
him chance to write his address on a piece of paper. Even though I didn’t
make any contact with him, having received no phone calls, I couldn’t stop
thinking about him, conjuring up a history for him in my head, what he had
done with his life. I started to worry that I had blown all my chance of ever
getting to know him – would he ever try to find me again?
My question was answered that afternoon when I returned home
from school, having just done my final day of the term. I was happy to be
broken up for the Christmas holidays, and have a break from everything.
Tony opened the door to the house and I followed him through, standing
over a pile of post on the door mat. Tony picked them up and thrust everything
that was not for him back on the floor. The last one he got though, he threw
to me.
It was a bright blue envelope with a first class stamp in the corner. It
felt like a Christmas card and although obviously I didn’t get any from Tony’s
relatives, it still wasn’t a shock. It could have been from a school friend or
anyone. I peeled back the seal and pulled out the card. It was a snowy field
with a robin on a fence and a snowman in the background. I opened it.

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 To Chris, it read. I am sorry for the way things turned out. You were
completely right though, I was an idiot. I just want to make amends now. If
you change your mind, give me a ring. My number is 07716 770598. Have a
nice Christmas. Hank.
“Hank,” I said out loud. I had never realised until then that I hadn’t
even known what his name was. “Hank.” It was a good name. It suited him
from what I could remember.
“Who’s it off?” Tony called from the top of the stairs.
I bounded up the stairs, dropping the envelope on my ascent and I
gave the card to him. He took it and read and he smiled.
“What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna make a better first impression,” I said, and I couldn’t help
smiling.

24th December 2008:

I was sat on the bench next to him, staring out across the park. A
family were playing rounders in the centre of the field, their trousers damp
from the frosty grass. Some people were walking their dogs and a few couples
walked and talked. I turned and looked at my dad.
“I’m sorry,” I said, without planning to.
“What for?”
“Our last meeting. I didn’t give you a chance.”
He said nothing and watched the ball being slogged across the field
with the foam bat, as if thinking. He seemed to make up his mind what he
wanted to say:
“I can’t blame you. I would have done the same. I never knew my Dad
either.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I lived in a foster home. I never knew either of my parents.”
I suddenly felt very guilty. I had had no idea. At least I had had my
mother growing up. He had had nobody...
And we talked. I don’t know how long we had been there talking, but
let’s just say that if the rounders game had been going on for as long as we
had been there, they would have died of exhaustion. First of all, leading from
his comment about not knowing his parents, we spoke about him. He grew
up in a large foster home, and was bright at school in scientific and
mathematical areas. Like me. He went on to study Biology and Chemistry at
College and University and then took do working in a laboratory. Additionally,

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he and his best friend did a lot of experiments in their free time, but never
found anything interesting.
He met my mum in Fuerteventura, a small island which was part of the
Canaries. It was there where he got her pregnant, although when he returned
to England, they started to live together, because her dad had died leaving
an empty house. When she gave birth to me though was when he scarpered
(he couldn’t look at me when telling me this part) and he went off to live in
Fuerteventura with a friend. There, he found a job and earnt some money for
himself, but it was only half a year ago when he returned to England to find
me.

This of course was his life in a nutshell. He elaborated on everything, giving

great descriptions of what he got up to in his years, but it wasn’t important
really. What was important was the fact that he had come back for me. He
knew he had made a mistake and yet he had returned to face up to that
mistake.
After he had finished, we started on me. I of course, could not tell
him everything. I left any mention of my ... uniqueness out. Even so, I seemed
to have an awful lot to tell him. We must have been sat on that bench for
hours. I spoke to him about what felt like every single day of my life in vivid
detail. From what I could remember growing up as a child, to my recent
years at high school. He listened intently, nodding as I went, apparently very
interested. Saying it, it didn’t feel interesting. I couldn’t tell him the interesting
parts.
My phone rang and I answered it.
“Christopher?”
“Hey Mrs. Co - “
“Debbie.”
“Debbie. I’ll be home soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon, soon.”
“Okay, only it’s Christmas Eve, and you should be spending the time
with your... with us.”
I looked at my Dad and felt very guilty. Guilty towards the Cockrums.
For two years they had been looking after me, and yet here I was on Christmas
Eve, giving him my full attention, possibly to find what I had lost when Mum
disappeared. I felt ashamed of myself.
“Ten minutes, Mrs ... Debbie.”
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.
“I’ve gotta go home.”
“Of course you do. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve been out a long
time.”
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 I nodded, not really wanting to get off the bench. I had had one of
the longest and most thoughtful conversations in my life with a man I had
only met twice.
“Thankyou,” I said.
“For?”
“Changing your mind.”
Tears began to roll down my cheeks, but I knew I didn’t have to run.
I wasn’t going to change. I was still calm.
“And thank you,” he said. “For letting me. I’ve enjoyed meeting you
Chris, and I’d like to get to know you even better. I know I can never replace
your mother, and I would never take you away from the family you are staying
with - “
“My family,” I corrected him, feeling as if I owed something to Tony
and his mum.
He didn’t say anything.
“I must get home,” I told him, getting up quickly off the bench. I held
out my hand. “It was nice meeting you ... Hank”
He looked disappointed. I don’t know if he was expecting hugs and
kisses, but that was a LONG way off. We’d had a nice chat. Got to know
each other a bit. He was still far from my father.
“I hope to see you soon Christopher,” he said.

25th December 2008:

Christmas day was as strange as it had been the previous year with
the Cockrums. It was probably the one day of the year where I really felt
completely out of place. All of the Cockrum relatives came round and whilst
they were very nice to me, I still felt as if I was intruding. Presents were
exchanged. I obviously got them off Tony’s direct family, but not many off
other relatives, as I didn’t see them often and wasn’t related to them, so that
was completely fair enough. I would have felt much worse if they had bought
me presents because I would have felt like I was making them obliged to buy
me things.
We were sat round the table in the kitchen which we had extended.
There were spare chairs brought in from the garage and everybody was
squeezed in, elbows touching and yet tucking into the food excitedly all the
same. Mrs. Cockrum’s meal was fantastic, as expected. She had done herself
proud and I knew that she had been planning it for weeks, although she kept
telling me “it was nothing”. She was the only one who appeared not to be
eating, just asking everybody else if she could get them anything.

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 The tidings were interrupted by the melodic ringing of the doorbell.
“I’ll get it!” Mrs. Cockrum announced. Heaven forbid anybody else’s meal be
interrupted.
She came back into the room a minute later, her face surprisingly
solemn. “Chris?” she said as I looked up from my gravy drenched turkey.
“You’d better come with me.”
I got up off my chair, and so did Tony, but his mum made him sit back
down, much to his protests. Was I in trouble? Had they found her? Everybody
was looking at me as I walked out of the kitchen, down the corridor and to
the front door behind Mrs. Cockrum. It was my Dad.
“Christopher...” Mrs. Cockrum said, obviously trying to think of the
best way to say it. “This is..”
“My father. I know.”
“Oh.”
“How did you know it was my dad?”
“I’ve lived in this town even longer than your mother lived in her
house. And your father was living with her at one point – you know me and
her were friends, and I saw him around. More to the point, how do you know
who he is?”
I looked at him for help. He had just been stood there silently whilst
we talked. He was wearing the leather jacket he had had on the first time we
met, and he had a small piece of paper in one hand, which hung loosely at
his side.
“I... met up with Christopher yesterday...” he began. Mrs. Cockrum
looked bewildered.
“Why ... why now?” she asked – she obviously felt as I had when he
had first told me.
“That is not something I wish to discuss with you I am afraid,” he
spoke softly and assertively. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with my
son on Christmas Day.”
She didn’t move, looking at me. I nodded at her, and she reluctantly
walked back into the house.
“Hey,” I said to my Dad.
“Happy Christmas son,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Yeah... you too.”
He just stood there, looking at me, distantly.
“Is that what you came for?” I asked, regretting my rudeness instantly.
“No.” He handed me the paper in his hand. It was an aeroplane
ticket.
“What’s this?” I asked, knowing full well.
“Your Christmas present from me. A ticket to Fuerteventura.”
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 “When?”
“Next week. You’ll be back before school starts.”
I didn’t say anything, trying to take it in.
“What are you thinking?” he pursued.
“I’m thinking: why have you given me this?”
“I want to get to know you better, and make it up to you. And I know
one lousy holiday isn’t going to make up for fourteen years of not being with
you... but it’s a start.”
I thought about it. He was definitely my father, and yet it didn’t feel
right. I hadn’t known him five minutes and it was unfair on the Cockrums. I
told him.
“I know you’ve not known me five minutes Chris, but, we need to
start somewhere. And I’d rather it be just the two of us, on a beach, eating
together, having a good time than meeting in cafes every now and again.
Maybe a whole week with me will let you know whether you like me or not.”
“It’s not about whether I like you or not,” I told him honestly. “It’s... I
don’t know the slightest thing about you, not really. I know you told me your
life story, and I’m pretty sure you’re not, but you could be some kind of sicko
you know, think about it from where I’m standing.”
“Yes, I’d thought about that,” he said. “Which is why you’ve got your
own room. We will never actually be completely alone – we’ll always be in a
public place.”
I wasn’t worried about that at all, and him having said that made me
feel bad. He was only trying his best, and I was making him feel unwanted.
“And I’m back in time for school to start?”
“Yep.”
...
“When are you picking me up?”

27th December 2008:

I worried about my actions and how it had made the Cockrums feel.
They had put in every effort for two years into making me feel part of their
family, and yet when my Dad appeared out of the blue I ran to his beck and
call. They were supposed to be my family now and yet two days after he had
given me tickets to go on a holiday with him, I had rushed off and was now
sat on a hard seat watching the Simpsons movie on the way to Fuerteventura.
We had been on the plane three hours with one more left to go.
Me and Dad had chatted for a bit for the first half hour or so. He had
seen me listening to Tony’s iPod which I had borrowed, and we started having
a talk about what music we liked. Let’s just say he had... different taste than
me. However it was to be expected as that’s what all parents and their kids
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were like because they hadn’t had the same generation’s worth of music.
That thought felt weird – that’s what all parents were like. He was a parent. I
hadn’t had one of them for...
I turned the iPod up a bit using the click wheel – I was thinking too
much and I had a headache and I didn’t want to think about it. Turning the
volume up may have seemed like a bad idea for a headache, but it was a
thinking headache, not a loud noise one. Dad was asleep. I pulled my
unbelievably loud headphones out for a minute to listen to his soft breathing,
to check that he was real. To check that it was all real.

29th December 2008:

The holiday was going fantastically. He was a much more interesting

man than I had expected – there was so much more to him than met the eye
and what he had told me in the park. Jokes he made. Habits he had. Ways
he ate his food. Things he found funny. Comments he made. Ways he spoke
to people. His lack of patience. He had been right. Spending a week together
was a fantastic way of getting to know each other. And, believe it or not, I
was starting to like him. Two months ago I had trashed Subway in a rage and
gone on a “rampage” because of his return, and now he was lying next to me
on his back, dripping in salty water having just emerged from the sea.
“Why didn’t you want to come in Chris?” he asked, panting from the
hard swimming he had been doing quite far out, which I had watched
frantically.
“I er... I don’t wanna get cold,” I lied.
I didn’t like swimming. I never had done. An experience as a kid had
made me scared stiff of being submerged in the stuff, so much so that I
could only have showers. I had been at a lake in Pickmere with my mother,
and we had hired a boat. I had fallen out, looking too eagerly at a fish below
me, and my body had turned metal under the stress - I sunk to the bottom,
unable to pull myself out. My mother had called for help but nobody had
heard her. I remember lying at the bottom of the murky pond, trying to scream,
trying to breathe – it was a traumatic event. She managed to hoist me out
after swimming down and getting me, but I never looked at water the same
way again. It sounds stupid I know, but it’s one of those things you just wouldn’t
understand really unless you could say you had experienced it.
He looked across the sand at me. He could tell I was lying. And he
could tell I could tell he could tell I was lying.
“Should we make our way back up?” I changed the subject, pointing
at our hotel behind us. “I fancy a Coke.”
Five minutes later we were sat on one of the tables outside. He had
a lager and I had a coke. There was a singer on the other side of the pool
81
with a small band of different instruments behind her. I looked around the
outside of the hotel, my ears soaking up the music. There were nicely placed
tables around the pool side, with couples talking civilly, sipping champagne.
People sunbathed on deckchairs, and some older people had parasols to
stop them becoming radish coloured. Behind the singer were two lads playing
ping pong very competitively, and next to them a pool table stood, unused.
There was a gym with some muscley men in, and a few women who had
their deck chairs suspiciously close to where the gym window was... People
got in and out of a hot tub in one corner, laughing amongst themselves.
Waiters and waitresses strolled between deckchairs, always smiling, taking
people’s orders who were too lazy to get up and sit at a table. A man working
at the hotel was doing jigsaws and games with small children near to where
the ping pong was, whose parents probably fell among the number goggling
at the singer, which I have to say my father was also one of. Even though the
sun beat down on us, warming us to the core, there was also a lovely
contradictory breeze which swept right across us, making the island a
pleasant place to sit and talk, which we had been doing a lot of. There was a
lovely view of the beach and the sea, which was azure. The whole atmosphere
was wonderful – it made me feel so content and peaceful.
The pool was large and in the middle of the area – a fantastic focal
point and something to watch when the singer was swapped for an older
model. There was a brunette girl in there, who looked to be slightly older
than me. She was very slim and pretty. She was in an orange bikini and was
throwing a ball back and to with her shorter (and rather plumper) friend. The
ball was knocked out of the pool and I jumped up eagerly to get it, throwing
it back to her. She smiled at me. “Gracias.”
I sat back down. Dad was looking at me, annoyingly knowing.
“What!?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, continuing to look the same.
“What.”
He laughed. “You were very quick to jump up and help her with her
ball,” he smiled, nudging me teasingly.
I punched him playfully. This is what we had been like the first two
days. Winding each other up, giving each other some stick; it was much
more fun and interesting than sitting and having the occasional conversation
about football players like I heard a lot of fathers do with their kids. I hadn’t
known him two minutes and I was already starting to feel lucky to have him.

30th December 2008:

We were sat in the restaurant. It was my third full day and I still
couldn’t believe how classy the food was. They had everything from roast ox
82
to Mexican chicken, and to be honest, everything was delicious. It was great
fun to go up and fill your plate with loads of different foods and to try each
one, commenting on it to Dad and to hear his thoughts on it too. The service
was excellent – an ice bucket with your regular drinks already and waiting
for you was just one of the things that amazed me, another being the fact
that instead of constantly topping up the trays with food they just took them
away and brought out completely fresh ones. I had to admit, he’d taken me
to a really swish hotel. Mum had never took me anywhere like this. I’m sure
she would have if she’d been comfortable with money and everything, but I
don’t think she always was, and she was very careful with it. Which was a
good thing I know.
“How come you chose this hotel?” I asked him, spooning another
huge dollop of warm bananas, ice cream and chocolate sauce into my gaping
mouth.
“The Riu,” he said, stating the name of the hotel through a mouthful
of steaming apple pie. “Is where I met your mother.”
I dropped my spoon, coughing and having to take a quick gulp of my
ice cold coke. He had caught me by complete and utter surprise – I hadn’t
known that. I told him.
“I know.”
“... But why here?”
“I like it here,” he told me, sitting back and smiling. “Memories and
all that jazz.”
I laughed – his last four words reminded me of the song he had
attempted to sing to me at lunch time that day. He was telling me about how
he had met my mother, but I wasn’t really listening. I was distracted by possibly
the most beautiful sight of my entire life. The Spanish girl who’s ball I had
passed back yesterday in the swimming pool had just walked into the room
with her family, dressed in a long black dress with sequins. From my
perspective she was standing behind a pile of precisely stacked champagne
glasses, which seemed to emphasize the light reflecting from the sequins,
as if she was dazzling me from the moment he saw her. I followed her as she
walked across the room, escorted by a waiter and sat with her family at a
large table. Her hair flowed elegantly as she walked, like a vertical brown
river, and her face shone as much as her dress did. She seemed to glide so
gracefully through the room to their seats, almost as if the dress itself was
her means of transport, and all she had to do was hover and smile, radiating
a wonderful aura that was... lacking in her oversized friend who waddled in
behind her wearing what looked to be a ... tent with holes for arms.
Dad stopped talking; evidently he knew I had been distracted. She
caught eyes with me and we both smiled at each other quickly, before turning
away, embarrassed. Dad raised his eyebrows. I kicked him under the table,
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and he continued to tell me about how he had met my mother here and had
moved back to England with her weeks later and lived with her. Why had she
never told me that?

31st December 2008:

I was stood inside my room in just shorts due to my recent (and of

course quick) dip in the bubbling Jacuzzi, taking pictures from over the balcony
of the hotel and surrounding area. I could see Dad by the pool drinking a
bubbling pint, sat by himself and looking forward to the African acrobats
which were that evening’s entertainment. I zoomed in with the camera on his
head, watching on the screen of the camera the casual way he sipped his
lager, watching it run down his throat past his Adam’s apple. I could never
get sick of that.
I looked around the room at my own luxury quarters that Dad had
paid for. The room was a lovely subtle cream with a nice blue sofa with
plump yellow cushions that me and Dad had sat on and played cards the
day before. It was filled with pretty yellow lamps in corners on tables and
fastened to walls, although only one was casting light over the room – I had
turned the others off because I was leaving in a minute. There was a painting
of a vase with flowers in on the wall, above the fantastically blue rug that
covered the floor. The door was still ajar because Dad had just left – he had
come in to tell me that he would meet me downstairs for a drink and to watch
the African acrobats. There was a large double bed in the room which had
been made by the staff, my pyjamas folded into a pattern on top. The bed
was all to myself which I loved, having been stuck at the bottom of a small
bunk bed for the last two years. Looking at the table with flowers, a bottle of
wine, a bag of apples, a bottle of water and a towel folded into a swan on, I
wondered how I’d be able to go back to the real world from this. I turned
back to the balcony to take a couple more pictures of the fantastic surrounding
area, but before I could set the camera up, a voice startled me from behind.
“ ‘Ello.”
I jumped and turned around. It was the gorgeous Spanish girl. We
had been glancing at each other all day across the pool and quickly looking
away. It felt weird in my tummy. I’d not sensed anything so strange before –
and I could turn metal!
“Hola,” I said, attempting some of her language as she had done
with mine. She looked radiant. She was still in her bikini and her hair was still
wet – she had been in the pool mere minutes ago as I had been watching
her from the balcony.

84
 “Why is your ... door open?” she asked, finding the English words
from her vast vat of languages that lay within her head. “Are you waiting for
somebody?”
She stepped closer to me, her swimmable blue eyes looking
innocently at the ceiling.
“No...” I replied, looking around me for inspiration, not quite sure
what to do...
“Oh,” she said flirtatiously, and her hand was on my shoulder, her
arm parallel to the ceiling. She pointed at the door which apparently she had
closed. “So nobody will be coming in then?”
“I...” I began, but I didn’t have a chance for anything else. Our lips
were locked and we were kissing intensely, locked together in a powerful
embrace – it was blissful oblivion. We seemed to be walking slowly around
the room as we were, in the direction I would have walked and before we
knew it we had fallen on to the bed... my hand on the back of her long wet
hair...
I had never kissed anybody before. And yet it felt so natural – the
easiest thing in the world to do with this Spanish girl who’s name I reminded
myself I must find out...
She pulled away from me quickly and screamed loudly. What was
wrong? I looked at her, staring wide eyed and horror stricken at me. I looked
at myself. She could see the body of a bikini clad sexy sixteen year-old,
reflected in my metal chest...
She pulled herself out from under me, screaming wildly. I called after
her as she scrambled off the bed, looking back at me as if I was some sort of
alien, screaming something in Spanish that sounded like she was shouting
for someone...
I sat up on the bed, thinking frantically what to do. Think, Chris,
think! I told myself. I was panicking, my head not thinking straight – any
moment now someone was going to come running in here... my heart was
pounding – I wasn’t going to return normal any time soon, and even if I did
the situation still didn’t look good – we’d both been half naked and she’d run
out of the room screaming. I realised what must have caused the
transformation – the excitement and adrenaline of what we had been doing
must have brought my heart rate up, and...
I heard somebody running down the corridor, the footsteps getting
scarily louder. Acting instinctively, I ran out onto the cool balcony, trampling
over the damp clothes I had left to dry, and pressed my hand on the steel
barrier as I vaulted over onto the other side, where a thin, tiled platform ran
for decoration and possibly something to do with structure of the balcony. I
walked quickly yet carefully along it, looking down below to check nobody
near the pool had spotted me above their heads, acting like some kind of
85
nut. They hadn’t – I was very high. I reached the end of the platform and saw
the distance between where I was and my destination – the platform next to
the balcony of the next room. I looked at it, knowing I’d have to jump across
to escape whoever was coming to find me. I took into account the distance,
closed my eyes, composing myself, and used my legs to spring myself
upwards and towards the platform, rushing through the air, the wind chilling
me as I looked down below in mid air, taking into account how dangerously
high I was. I landed, my feet hitting the tiled platform ... and yet still falling...
I reached out to try to grab the barrier to the balcony as I fell, my
metal feet having destroyed the platform which now fell with me downwards.
Perhaps it hadn’t been quite as stable as it looked... I had missed the barrier
as I fell, my fingers gripping at nothingness, screams echoing from below as
I and the rubble plummeted into the swimming pool below.
I tried to breathe, but got a mouthful of water. I attempted to cough
but swallowed a lot of the drink. I tried to move my arms up, to pull myself out
of the pool – my head at least – but my metal body seemed unwilling to
become light as it had been in Pickmere Lake – the day was brought back
into frighteningly vivid memory as I tried to pull myself up through the water
– I couldn’t breathe. Why were no people helping me out of the pool – could
they not see I was drowning? The murky water surrounded me – I could see
the boat at the surface where Mum was screaming... My hands reached up
for hers... I felt my metal finger clink against the side of the pool and I hoisted
myself out, sucking in air like I had to stock up for the next six days.
I realised, looking up that everywhere was chaos: People were
running round, screaming, tables and chairs went flying as they were knocked
over, kids were crying, being rushed away in parents’ arms – the whole place
was in utter chaos. Waiters had dropped their trays and were rushing over to
where I half lay, half kneeled, water dripping off my metallic body.
I don’t know what I was thinking, but I knew I had to get out of there
before they saw my face. The waiters were running towards me from all
sides, apparently trying to subdue me as I raised my body from the position
it was, standing up and lifting my arms violently, sending the waiters flying
away in all directions. I heard one splash down in the swimming pool as I ran
forwards, knocking a few tables that remained standing into the same position
as most of the others. There were more screams as my body crashed through
the glass of the restaurant window, shards flying in all directions. People
dived out of the way as I continued running, not stopping to build up the
momentum I knew I would have to – the door would be far too crowded by
the fleeing people. I sprinted down the stone steps from the bar – jumping
the last four, creating great gaping cracks in the marble floor – and raced
across the lobby who’s elegance had amazed me so as I had first entered
the hotel with my dad. People were also running in the same direction away
86
from the pool side, some of who had only just seen me and were screaming
even more. A woman appeared in one corner down the stairs, wrapped loosely
in a towel. She saw me, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving only the
echoes of her screams and her towel on the bottom step. I passed the exit of
the hotel which people were rushing through, like a herd of scared sheep –
I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of there quickly without hurting anyone or
being subdued.
I continued my fantastic pace as I ran past the reception desk towards
the wall. A man behind reception screamed and fell off his chair. Praying
inside my head that my plan would work, I covered my face with my arms as
I got ever nearer to the wall, hoping the momentum I had gained would see
me through....
CRASH!
My heart leapt as my body plummeted. I had made it through the
wall of the hotel, no doubt having destroyed the picturesque lobby by leaving
rubble all over the immaculate room. I was now falling downwards – I had
forgotten how high up the hotel Riu actually was. As I fell towards a small
dark car park where no doubt the hotel staff parked, I remembered the long
zig zagged ascent the car had taken to get up to the hotel and cursed myself
for not remember the height of the place. I braced myself for the impact of
whatever I would hit, and my feet crashed into the top of a car, causing it to
almost split in half. I had demolished the navy roof and was stood on one of
the car’s seats among the rubble which was the roof. The alarm screeched
and I bounded out, landing on the tarmac on all fours. I stared ahead of me
where the touristic town was, arcades and shop signs flashing commercially.
A few people were pointing up to the Riu, probably because of all of the
commotion and noise as the scared civilians flooded out of the doors.
Realising I had no time to waste, I scrambled up the side of the brick
wall in front of me, using a bin as a leg up, and balanced myself on the top,
crouching on the balls of my feet, scanning the area – where to go? I looked
down, realising the hill the Riu was on was even bigger by the huge drop that
looked up at me scarily from below. I looked back, about to turn around and
find another route to the place which I wasn’t quite sure of yet, however I
saw two men dressed in black suits running towards me – I recognised them
as main hotel staff, and they were shouting something in Spanish, arms
outstretched as they brandished their clenched fists. I looked back down.
There were several thick palm trees below, and I couldn’t really see what
was below them. I looked back again – the men were only metres away, and
one was pulling something from the inside of his suit pocket...
I dived backwards off the wall when I saw the gun. I heard a bang,
and felt the bullet miss my head by inches as the wind rushed up against
me, my body doing somersaults in the air as I fell. I didn’t know whether the
87
bullet would have done anything to my metal exterior (I had never been shot
at before) but as I looked up and saw the men looking down at me in descent,
I was glad I had chosen to jump from the wall.
When I reached the palm trees however, I felt leaves and branches
snap against my skin – I was stupid to have expected them to slow me down
as I was. Huge branches snapped against me and then a huge pain surged
across my back as I slammed into the ground.
All I could do for a minute was lie there, more in the floor than on it.
I could still hear the shouting of the people who had been staying at the Riu,
but more predominant noise was the car alarm which was still blaring from
above. I hoisted myself up and looked down at the ground, where a large,
Christopher Wein shaped hole lay. It looked like something off Tom and Jerry
when Tom ran in the wall and left a cat shaped hole.
I looked around, through the palm trees, wondering what to do. Where
should I go? What should I do? Where was my dad? Would I ever get home?
The hopelessness of my situation began to dawn on me with these questions.
I took a step back, almost as if punched in the stomach by my own realisation
at my misfortune. My thinking was stopped short when I realised that there
seemed to be more car alarms going off than the one I had set off. They
were getting louder as well ... my stomach lurched; they weren’t car alarms,
they were police sirens.
I started to run in one direction, and then reconsidered and ran back
in another, trying to decide the best escape, trying to pinpoint where the
sirens were actually coming from. I had begun to work it out as three police
cars drove past on the road. The third one stopped when it saw me, the
driver staring intently at me through his window. He sounded his horn, and
the other two police cars slowed. There was a moment of nobody moving or
doing anything, but seconds later, there was a military like Spanish voice
echoing over the area, being magnified by a megaphone. A man had stepped
out of one of the cars and was pointing a gun at me. I raised my hands and
started walking towards the cars.
There were more words in Spanish, which of course I didn’t
understand, so I just continued to walk towards the policemen, my head
hanging and my mind racing. There was the one with the gun and another
one behind him, holding a pair of handcuffs which were clinking together
smugly. The man with the gun was moving it slowly, following me, and
indicating with it at the handcuffs. The one holding the handcuffs barked
something forcefully – I don’t know what he said, but just the way he said it
scared me.
I was just about there when I sprung into action. I dived between
both of the policemen, taking them by surprise, and ran over the bonnet of
one of their cars, destroying it as though it was made of cardboard. I heard
88
the gun go off, and felt the bullet hit my shoulder, but it didn’t pierce my metal
skin and ricocheted off. I had finally found out that I was bullet proof, a question
that had burned in my mind for years. There were more shots which flew
over my head, and shouts from the policemen. I ran across the road, a car
screeching to a halt to my left to avoid running into me. A horn blared as I
reached the other side, bounding over a flower bed, soil kicking up from my
feet and the bullets rained into the ground; intended for me.
I ducked between two buildings and was on another street. The traffic
here was stationary because of lights on red, so I ran along the road by the
side of them and only received bewildered looks and horns. I reached the
end of the road, panting, but my stomach lurched when I turned the corner
and a police car blocked my path, either one of the ones from before come
to cut me off or another one. I didn’t care where it had come from, but I was
running round the vehicle, my feet crunching hard into the road as I ran, the
car not able to follow me due to another behind it.
I didn’t meet any more police for a while. I continued to dive between
alleys, getting further and further away from the hotel Riu which I had trashed,
with no apparent destination. People stared, pointed, yelled at me as I passed,
but I ignored them, trying to keep my face covered with my hands or just
looking down as much as possible – could I still get away with this?
I was getting to a more barren area of the island now. Dry, sandy
hills with just a few roads ascending was what I was running up, cactuses
galore. It was nothing nearly as divine as the picturesque beaches and palm
trees that spanned the area where the Riu had been – Dad had booked us
on the best bit of the island. It had all been going so well...
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden approaching chuddering
noise from above my chrome head. I looked up and saw a small, grey
helicopter above me. There was a man hanging out of one side, holding a
large black video camera which was pointing in my direction. I shielded my
face with my hands – no way was this happening! The helicopter swooped
down low over my head, apparently getting some exclusive footage for the
television – I was amazed they even had emergency news helicopters on an
island as small as this. I pressed on, still covering my face, the stitch in my
side increasing painfully as I tried to pick up speed. I could tell from the
shadow that the helicopter was following me, its propellers spinning so fast
that they just looked like a translucent blur in the shadow.
I stopped in my tracks as the helicopter got lower and lower, now in
front of me. If I had continued running I would have had to duck to get under
it. The man holding the camera was wearing sunglasses and he was obviously
brave to be hanging out of a helicopter doing what he was doing. I kept my
hand over my face – I did not want the metallic face of Christopher Wein
splashed all over the papers. The helicopter must have only been ten metres
89
away from me – I was amazed how low and close to me it had got. The
driver must have been very skilled. The propellers were bringing up a load of
dust which was circling around us like a tornado.
I walked cautiously towards the helicopter. It stayed still, as if it would
wait there right to the death to get some exclusive footage of my face. I had
my left hand over my face, and my right hand outstretched, as if to stop the
camera seeing me also. But it wasn’t.
I waited until I was about five metres away from the hovering copter
before I ran rapidly and slightly to the right, both arms in the same position.
I moved my hand away from my face crucially at the very last second, and
my arms around the tail of the helicopter. There were frantic Spanish shouts
from inside, and the helicopter rose into the air, swinging round in circles as
if to try and get me off. As we rose higher and higher, it got colder and colder
and I found it more and more difficult to breathe. If silver could turn blue my
face would have. I held on for dear life though, my arms hanging on so
tightly that I was distorting the shape of the tail, causing the helicopter to fly
with a slight tilt. Let’s hope I wasn’t captured at the end of the day or I would
have been sued for property damage all over the place...
It was the most frightening and exhilarating thing I had ever done in
my life. The danger, and yet the thrill, both fighting inside of me to take over
and consume me. The helicopter was gaining ground now, further and further
into the desolated island. Cars were stopping, probably staring up at us. As
much as I should have been terrified of people realising what I was, it felt
almost... exciting to know that I was being watched. Like some kind of stunt
in a movie which everyone was impressed with, only this was real.
I could hardly breathe at all now – the air was really thin. I saw coming
into view another more populated area – there were more buildings and a
few lights flashed up through the darkness. Did I want to go there? I didn’t
really know where I wanted to go. This news helicopter had just seemed like
a good escape from the police filled ground, but now the idea wasn’t looking
so clever...
I looked down and we were over a touristy area again. Another arcade
section with all that jazz, and shops where you could buy the classic tat like
surf boards, key rings and magnets. My vision was beginning to go slightly
blurry – it must have been due to lack of breath. I felt my metal body beginning
to weaken as the helicopter continued on its way, not really getting any lower.
My grip was beginning to weaken on the tail of the copter. Not now, I thought.
Not when we were directly above the...
I couldn’t hold on any longer and my arms slipped away, my metal
skin grinding against the metal tail of the helicopter. I fell downwards, able to
see both the helicopter getting smaller and the buildings getting bigger due

90
to my somersaults, my head going numb, yet I managed to suck in some air
which I was ever so grateful for.
There was a huge crash which resulted in more pain to the back - I
had fallen through a roof, landing on the inside of an electronics shop. I
looked around. The shop was empty except for one man who was behind
the counter, looking, awe struck, from me to something behind me. I turned
around to see what he was looking at. There was a large silver television
behind me, evidently for sale, and it was turned on; it was what was on it that
concerned me. It was the news, and at the bottom it said, some words in
Spanish, but I could tell from the shaky camera and what was going on on
the screen that it was a live feed. The picture was from above a row of shops
and buildings, and although the camera was shaking, you could see what it
was trying to point at – there was a large hole in the roof of one of the
buildings, and as the camera man zoomed in I could see inside the building
a silver figure on the floor, staring at a television to his right. I was live on the
Spanish news.
I scrambled to my feet, running out of the shop, really panicking
now. Hanging onto that helicopter had been the worst idea I could have
possibly thought of. As I sprinted along the pavement, dodging tourists, I
realised that it seemed like a lifetime ago when I had been in my hotel room,
kissing the girl who had resulted in me being captured. I had never thought
that kissing someone would lead to this.
A large man in a white tracksuit lunged at me like he was trying to
rugby tackle me round the legs, and I couldn’t stop myself running in time.
He succeeded, and I buckled at the knees, flying into a stand outside a
shop, buckets and spades raining down on top of us. I loosened myself from
his grip violently and stood up, continuing on my way, oblivious to the screams
and commotion which surrounded me. I looked up, the helicopter was still
near the electronics shop – it looked like it had lost me in the crowd. Great!
I hurtled round another corner, determined to confuse it and to get
as far away from it as possible. I ran straight over an air hockey table which
was in use, not having time to run round past the people playing. The disc hit
my foot and shattered. My stomach lurched as I heard sirens again – the
police had returned.
I stopped at the end of the street, looking side to side, unsure where
to go. Where were the police? How could I escape this place before I got into
serious trouble. A car hurtled round the corner and stopped on the road,
right in front of me. I stared at it for a minute, and then realised it could be
some undercover police – I was about to run when the window rolled down
and a familiar face stared back at me.
“Get in, quick,” Dad said.

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1st January 2009:

The air hostess announced that we were in 2009 and there was a
cheer from everyone in the plane. I didn’t feel like cheering though. I was
tired. I had done more running that day than I had ever done. When he had
picked me up in the stolen car, he had explained all about how he had known
where I was because of the live feed on the television – one of his friends
had been telling him what was happening on the phone. He had escaped
the area without anyone managing to follow us and taken me to the airport,
where he had bought us a last minute flight before booking us on a plane
back to England, before somebody in the country captured me. I had fired all
sorts of questions at him, but he had simply said we would talk on the plane
– he had to make sure we weren’t being followed. He had seemed like an
expert in making a quick escape as he helped me, and I had been so happy
he was there for me in what had been my greatest hour of need.
I was now on the plane which was not busy – most people were
either at home or staying on holiday at that point, as a plane was not an ideal
place to be when it became 2009. We were sat at the back of the plane, with
no one behind us, and no one in front of us for a few rows of seats.
“Okay,” he said to me, after everybody on the plane settled down.
“Let’s talk. What do you want to know?”
“I kinda figured it’d be you that would have had a lot of questions to
ask me,” I told him honestly. “About ... what I became. What did you think
when you saw me come out of the swimming pool?”
He looked at the fold down desk table which was empty. He looked
ashamed. Not of me, but of himself. It was then that I realised.
“You knew didn’t you? You knew all along?”
He gave a slight, but definite nod.
“How long have you known?”
He didn’t say anything, looking down at the table still. His hands
were shaking. I asked again.
“Since you were born,” he muttered.
It all made sense. I had gone mad at him months before for leaving
because of the responsibility of a child, but the real reason he had left had
been something that had always been possible in my mind growing up – he
had seen my metal skin and fled. And you know what, I didn’t blame him. I
didn’t resent him for it at all – I’m sure most people would have done something
drastic if their child was a freak of nature, it’s just not an easy thing to be able
to say as you don’t get many metal babies. I put my hand on his, and he
looked at me.
“I don’t blame you,” I said.
He smiled weakly.
92
 “I really don’t. Most people would have done the same.”
He laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, looking away again.
I didn’t press it. I asked him the next question which was now burning
to be asked inside my mouth which had only really just stopped panting from
my run.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“I was going to,” he said, taking control of his shaking now and sitting
up straight in his seat, taking a deep breath. “On the last day of the holiday.
I wanted you to get to know me well before I told you.”
It didn’t make any sense.
“I don’t get it. You could have told me the first time we met.”
“How do you do sports at school?” he asked, seeming to change the
subject, but it felt like it was intending to go somewhere with this and evolve
the essential conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re skin turns to metal when your heart rate increases. Surely
there’s a high chance of something happening at school?”
“I don’t do games,” I said, truthfully. “I do art. I tell them I have a heart
condition.”
“Do you not dream of the chance to play sports with your mates?” he
pushed straight away, almost as if he knew what I was going to say. “Wouldn’t
it be good if you could... control the change!? Rather than have it control you
and what you do!?”
His face was wide now, smiling and looking eagerly like he had been
wanting to say this for years. I said nothing. He took a deep breath and
continued with his explanation.
“You were born metal,” he said to me, his tone getting lower now,
looking round to make sure nobody was listening. “I, as you know, am a
biologist. When you were born, I freaked, knowing I could not live with you –
I myself would be all over the news for having created a son who, I am sorry
to say I thought at the time, was a freak. However, before I left, I quickly took
a blood sample. And I spent a lot of time over the next fourteen years to find
a way for you to control what was happening inside you, using the sample I
took. And now, it is ready!”
I sat there rigid, stunned at the revelations over the last few minutes.
“When are you planning on giving it me?”
“When we get back,” he spoke as though it was the most obvious
thing in the world, like a maths teacher going over something he had tried to
explain to one student a thousand times. “If you want it.”

93
2nd January 2009:

“Welcome,” my father said, pulling a dangling light switch. “To the

lab.”
The windowless room we were in was illuminated instantly. It wasn’t
big, but what was in it could have made a room twice as big look full. It was
hard to move without fear of elbowing some spatula or testing tube and
sending it flying onto something that could have been important. Clear plastic
pots filled rows of shelves, each with a small amount of coloured substance
in, all labelled numerically. Books were stacked precariously everywhere,
covered in thick layers of dust which was making me wary of breathing in too
deeply – I didn’t want the inside of my lungs laced like their covers. Logs,
journals pages, records, reports - mostly handwritten in the writing I
recognised from my Christmas card – plastered the walls, attached firmly
with brightly coloured pins. A large, stained cloth covered a table in the middle
of the room. There was a large computer in one corner, humming and flashing
subtly. There were paper files hanging out of the Lexmark printer underneath,
flaking at the corners. On the desk, next to the computer was a small framed
photo of my mother and father, with a slight crack down the middle between
them. There was another large, flashing, square machine to my right, hanging
off the wall, but I didn’t know what it was. A small table below it held only one
rack of test tubes, almost as if they held some sort of significance. One was
crusting around the brim with what looked like dried milk, and one test tube
seemed to have half melted and solidified again, distorted like a deformed
animal. There were diagrams of humans amongst the journals on the walls,
covered in labels and notes and drawings, some of which had been scribbled
back out. Names of metals were drawn along the sides, with arrows and
question marks pointing at different areas of the skin. It was all for me. These
were just some of the things that hit me in the first minute or so of looking
around the room where my father had been spending most of his time in
recent years; I knew there would be so much more to this room if I were to
have a proper snoop around, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to just do the deed
and get out of there as quickly as I could.
I turned to look at Dad, the floor creaking as I spun round on the
balls of my feet. His face was unlike I had ever seen it. There was something
else there in his eyes which widened as he looked around the room, a smile
creeping onto his mouth. It scared me – I realised I didn’t even know if he
was any good at science, and I was about to take a miracle drug which he
had made in this pig sty of a lab?
“You’ve not been in here in a while,” I said, after coughing on the
dust. “To clean anyway.”

94
 “No,” he replied. “Since I found the answer there was no need for
more science. My primary goal then became finding you.
“Where is it?” I pressed on, looking round as if to see it in a glass
case with flashing red arrows pointing at it.
He strode over to a small chest of drawers in one corner, bending
his knees to pull out a leather box which slid open to reveal a thin, shining
needle. It was the only thing in the room that looked official or new or similar
to something you may see in a real laboratory, with safety measures and
double checking and regulations, all of which gave you some sense of security
which I didn’t have here.
He brought the needle over to a pot of liquid, which he cracked open
and filled the syringe with. I wondered how long the liquid had been sitting
there, going stale.
“You’re doing the right thing,” he assured me five minutes later as I
lay on the table with my sleeve rolled up. I looked around the laboratory
which reeked of unprofessionalism. I thought about how I was taking his
every word for the fact that he was a top class scientist. Maybe he was like
those singers on the talent shows on television who just thought they were
good. But then I thought of myself running a field playing rugby, laughing
with Tony – able to do whatever I wanted... whenever I wanted – with no fear
of my secret being discovered....
The needle pierced my skin and I screamed like I’d never screamed
before.

16th March 2009:

I checked my watch. Ten more minutes until we started. My heart

raced fast – the adrenaline rushing through me was fantastic – I couldn’t
wait to begin.
“You ready?” Tony asked me, pulling his top over his body armour
and grinning.
I nodded and fished my boots from the bottom of my bag. We walked
out of the changing room, chanting and singing as we went. A minute later
and we had filed onto the pitch, staring out the opposition who were dressed
entirely in a patronizing black. As I squelched my way through the mud, I
realised I couldn’t wait. This would be my first rugby game and I had never
been more excited about something at school. I had been elated in my weeks
of training, now that nothing happened when I got overly excited and I could
enjoy the sport like everybody else.
After the first few weeks of the severe illness after the injection, I
had rapidly recovered and had slowly realised that it had worked, and I could
go mental without going metal. Dad had been pressing me to try to become
95
metal out of free will, to see if his experiment had worked, but I told him I
didn’t want to yet. He wasn’t too happy about that I don’t think, but he could
wait – it was great not turning into Chrome Chris, and I wanted to use that as
much as possible; not think about the fact that it was still inside me, just
activating in a different way – when I wanted it to and not when my body
wanted it to.
After our warm-up the captains went to shake each other’s hands,
and the game was about to begin. I saw Tony grinning at me to my side. He
had been nearly as happy as I was that I was able to do sports – what a
friend he was.
The whistle blew and we were off. The ball was kicked to us; Jack
caught it and ran straight ahead. He side stepped a little guy who had bravely
dived for him and passed the ball to his left which Sam ran onto. He was
tackled, but rolled it away and Tony ran in to pick it up. He spun passed it out
to me, and I began tearing my way the opposite way, doing the switch
technique Mr. Jenkins, our coach had taught us. I dummy passed it and ran
past another guy, but was tackled instantly by a tall, muscley blonde lad. I
tried to roll it back but failed, and my team mates groaned – I had been too
greedy and had given the ball away.
The opposition took up their attack, passing it between them and
not really giving us a chance to get anywhere near the ball. I was mad with
myself for what I had done, and was running round rapidly, desperate to win
it back for our side. The tall blonde lad who had tackled me had it now, and
I lunged grabbing his ankles to try and pull him down. He didn’t fall, but
instead gave a subtle yet sharp kick with his foot, slashing my cheek with his
blades. I jumped back in pain, blood flying from my face from where he had
kicked me. Tony was by my side instantly, looking down at me.
“Alright mate?” I nodded, and he patted my shoulder and ran off,
continuing with the game. The referee hadn’t seen what the guy had done to
me.
I stood myself up, wiping blood away from my face with my hand,
running over to where the action was. We were still chasing their team, but
to no avail. Or so I thought until Tom unexpectedly ripped the ball from a
lanky guy with brown hair, taking him by surprise, and raced back up the
field. I was instantly on his shoulder, and he passed it to me when he got into
a tight spot. And now it was my turn to sprint, like I had done in Fuerteventura.
I was coming up towards the blonde guy who had kicked me deliberately in
the head – he was running towards me, arms outstretched, leering. I continued
even faster, determined to knock him over – to send him flying... I wanted
nothing else in the world more...
And that was just what I did. The body of the boy went flailing across
the pitch, the sound of the bones cracking making everyone scream in terror.
96
The body landed like a rag doll, and people were rushing over to see if he
was okay. The game of course, had stopped. The ball lay at my feet and lads
from both my team and the opposition were stood there, looking at me in
terror as if I was some kind of monster.
I didn’t need to look down to see my metal legs, but I did any way.
Just to be sure that it was true; this had been the first time since the experiment
I had become metal. And, yes I’d been angry, but not really angry like I
usually was. It was more the fact that I had wanted to knock him over which
had caused the transformation.
Mr Jenkins was walking towards me slowly from the side of the pitch,
amongst the paralysed boys. Parents were yelling, and there was a huge
crowd around the boy I had knocked over. “Christopher...” Mr. Jenkins said...
“Run Chris!” I heard Tony yell as Mr Jenkins dived for me, but I batted
him away with one arm; he yelled, but I didn’t have time to see how bad he
was injured – I was gone. I was sprinting across the playing fields, unaware
whether anybody was following me or not – I couldn’t look back. I reached
the edge and tore the mesh fencing away to escape, squeaking and groaning
as it clattered on the ground. I jumped through the hole I had made, running
down the hill and making sure I was careful not to run into any trees in my
descent down the hill and over the metal barrier onto the motorway, which I
(for once) checked both ways of before sprinting across and smashing through
the barrier onto the other side.
My heart was pumping frantically and I stopped, pacing up and down
to decide what to do. Traffic was slowing to get a good look, horns beeping,
but I wasn’t paying much attention – I was going through the situation in my
mind. What now? There was no going back. Everyone had seen me. Everyone
at school would soon know what I could become, however much it wasn’t
the real me. I wondered what would happen at home – how would the rest of
the Cockrums find out? Would the parents be alerted or would Tony tell them?
Would he tell them he knew all along, that he had not been fully honest with
his mother? I knew one thing: I wasn’t going back there.
I knew where I had to go. If only to get advice of a better place to go.
I ran down the hill onto a less populated street and began the journey to my
father’s house.
*
I had made it. Two close shaves with police and a searing stitch later,
I was banging frantically on the door to my father’s small, grubby detached
house on the corner of Claremont Street. I waited there, looking round
frantically, desperate for him to answer the door and let me in, when he
would tell me all about what we were going to do – how he was going to get
me out of this situation. No one answered. He wasn’t in.

97
 I thought hard, but I knew that I couldn’t stand there out in the open for
long, so I gave the door a forceful jerk and heard the hinges crack and the
wood splinter as it broke away from the frame, still “locked”. After walking
through, I propped it back up so any passersby wouldn’t feel interested
enough to come in the house and find me. I lingered in the tiny, dusty hallway,
pondering over my options. It didn’t take me long - there weren’t many. I
walked past the door to the lounge, through the kitchen and through the
door into the room he had turned into the lab. I was met again with the same
scruffy sight that I had been the first time, but I didn’t spend as long looking
round the room as I had had spent weeks in there healing from the initial
injection. I found myself tidying things into logical piles of papers and items,
to find something to do – anything to do to keep my mind off the situation I
was in before Dad got back from wherever he was. I didn’t like to think how
much my life had been completely destroyed – was there any going back to
normality from this?
As I walked over a rug to move the coffee table on the right, the floor
underneath made an unnatural creaking sound. I made the same movement
with my feet and heard it again. Weird. As I made the movement a third time,
I felt the wooden floor board under the rug shift slightly. Two seconds later,
the rug had been slung in a corner next to some papers and I was staring at
a small, square door in the floor – a trap door.
I pulled at the brass handle but the door didn’t move from the floor,
just creaked a bit. There was a small hole next to the handle for a key, and I
had a look round the room in drawers and in other obvious places for one
but to no avail. Giving up, impatience getting the better of me, I walked back
to where the trap door was and prized it away, tearing it off the floor like part
of an orange peel.
I looked down into the gloom. I could just about make out a floor,
roughly ten metres below me. Without a second thought, I had jumped in,
bending my knees as I landed on my feet on the hard and cold stone floor.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice trilled from my right. I spun round and
looked.
No.
I waved my hand in front of my eyes.
No way.
It couldn’t be.
My heart was beating faster than it ever had before, like the speed of
horse’s hooves on the run from a hungry lion. Because in front of me, was
my mother.
She was sat on a wooden chair, dressed in a black t shirt and shorts.
Her long brown hair was matted, and she looked downtrodden and defeated.
She was bound to the chair with a thick rope. Her head hung and yet at the
98
sight of me, she seemed to regain all the energy and power possible, her
eyes lighting up and her mouth forming into the friendly, loving smile I had
missed so much.
I didn’t have time to think about what she was doing there, however
obvious it should have been. I ran over to her and with a flick of my metal
wrist, pulled away at the rope that tied her to it, weakly she stood up and
looked at me.
“My baby...” she said, tears rolling down her face.
And we were hugging – an embrace so long as to make up for the two
years we had missed out on. Only now that I had met her again had I truly
realised how much I had missed her, no matter what the Cockrums had
done for me, and tears were pouring from my eyes too, dampening the
shoulder of her t shirt.
“How did you find me?” she asked, finishing our embrace.
“I didn’t know you were here...” I said despite the lump in my throat,
still unable to believe she was there. “I came looking for Dad and found the
trapdoor and...” my tears took over and I couldn’t speak. She sat me down,
putting her arm around my shoulder, telling me to let it out. She had been the
one tied up and yet she was comforting me. When I had calmed down, I told
her, upon request, everything. Absolutely everything, not hesitating once to
hold anything back – even after all this time apart she was still the only one
I could speak to completely openly. I told her about life with the Cockrums
and everything they had done for me. I told her about my dad arranging to
meet me. I told her about the events in Fuerteventura and the narrow escape
I had made. The proposition he had made me on the plane. The injection
that had led to me being able to do sport. And that day’s events – the first
time I had turned metal since after the injection, and how everybody would
now know what I was. Her smile grew weaker and weaker as she listened,
and yet she didn’t interrupt throughout the whole monologue.
“But... what about you?” I asked her, unable to believe I had just told
her all of that without even asking why she was tied up here. “How have you
been? Why are you here?”
“Chris,” she spoke softly, and I looked up into her wide, watering eyes.
“I need to tell you something. Something that I was too scared to tell you
when you were young.
“Your father is . . . not a nice man. That is the nicest way of putting it.
He is a terrible person who wants his own way 100% of the time, no matter
what the cost. Indeed, we did meet where he said we did, and he got me
pregnant. However, it wasn’t long before he began to see this pregnancy as
something more than starting a family to him – he wanted to use you as a
test subject for the project he had been working on – one which was to make
human skin toughen under times of stress.”
99
 I gasped. How had I been so stupid!? He hadn’t taken a blood sample
from me at all to cure me – he had known before I had even been born what
was going to happen to me! It was because of him that I became what I did!
“Of course, I completely disagreed with the idea,” she continued, staring
at me in the eyes the whole time so that as soon as the words left her lips I
knew in my mind they were the truth. “I didn’t even know if he was very good
at science or not, and I certainly wasn’t having him experimenting on my
baby.” She paused, her face hardening. “But he did it anyway. He injected
me with his ‘magic potion’ against my will and when I had you, you were born
metal.” When I didn’t say anything, she seemed to think I had not fully
understood and elaborated. “You were born metal,” she repeated. “All babies
are under stress as they are being born and your father’s wonder drug hadn’t
turned out so wonderful after all – imagine the pain I was going through as I
gave birth to a metal child.”
I realised now the full extent of it. I could only imagine the trauma she
must have gone through.
“And what did your dad do? He left. He panicked. He knew the police
would be on his case and the moment he saw his experiment had gone
wrong he disappeared, leaving me to cope by myself. Screaming as his
guinea pig tore its way out of me.”
I looked at my hands, watching them as I transformed to my vulnerable
state. I felt it in my head as well – I was repulsed by my metal appearance,
knowing that it was a curse that Dad had loaded me with, one that had hurt
my mother so terribly.
“I thought that had been it,” she pressed on; almost as if she worried
she wasn’t going to have enough time to tell me everything. “I thought he
was out of my life for good – that I’d never have to look at his evil face again.”
She hung her head. “But that wasn’t the case. He had some men kidnap me
when I was out, and they brought me here.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was inhumane.
“You’ve been here for two years!?”
She nodded, tears dripping from her hung head and hitting the floor
like tired raindrops.
“He’s fed me,” she sniffed. “He comes down two or three times a day
and lets me have a walk around. There’s a bucket for me to go to the toilet.
He keeps telling me how he still loves me, and he wishes there were another
way.”
“Has he ever . . . done anything to you?” I asked.
“No,” she answered. “He just comes in and holds a gun so that I
don’t do anything drastic, and lets me do what I need to do before going
back up. He says he wishes he could let me free but he knows I would just
get in the way of his plans with you.”
100
 “Plans?”
“His project went unfinished. He made a mistake. That is a very hard
thing for a mad-scientist like Hank to take in. He wanted to correct it, and he
hid me here, safely away from you. He never went to live in Fuerteventura
like he told you, he stayed in England, spying on you, finding things out. Of
course I only know this because of what he has told me, but it fits his character
perfectly. So after he had hidden me from you, he began to make his plan.
But he waited. He didn’t come to see you for two years, knowing that if it was
soon after my disappearance you may become suspicious that he was
connected with it. He wanted to correct his project. His original intentions –
to toughen your skin when your body was put under pressure – were forgotten,
but he wanted you to be able to control it.”
“But why?”
“So he could prove himself to everyone. He had made a fantastic new
weapon, which he would sell to the government.”
“He was going... to sell me?”
“He’s planning to train you up, show the world what his amazing project
can do, and then, just when everyone at the government is starting to feel
small, sell the serum that made you unique so that the country had a super-
soldier, and that we would no longer be living under America’s shadow.”
I looked at the stone floor, unable to believe that all of this had been
nothing to do with a reformed man being reunited with his son. It had all
been a ruse. I was being used by him just so he could prove he had found
something revolutionary. Anger boiled up inside of me like an angry beast
fighting to get out, and if Mum hadn’t been there I would have been pounding
my fists against the walls, crumbling the underground room and destroying
the foundations of my Dad’s house.
“So what’re we going to do?” I asked her, but we were cut short by a
creaking above our heads.
“He’s back!” she whispered frantically, hurrying me into a dark corner.
“Hide!”
I lay there in the shadows of the room, wondering how the hell she
had coped in this depressing place for that period of time – she was a much
stronger person than I was. I watched her out of the corner of my eye sit
back down on her chair, putting the rope over herself to make it look like she
hadn’t been released.
I was listening to him for minutes up in the laboratory, talking to himself.
It wasn’t long before I heard him notice the absence of the trapdoor and
started shouting down, calling my Mum’s name. He slid a long silver ladder
down and was in the room, dressed in the same scruffy clothes he had been
in when I had seen him these last weeks. He held a small, silver gun in his
hand, which was hanging loosely at his side, for support. Even though where
101
I was in this underground room was dark, the light from the laboratory shined
down upon him like a spotlight. I was filled with loathing for him as he walked
up to my mother.
“Who’s been in here?” he demanded of her, brutally.
“Christopher,” she answered. I was surprised at the bluntness of the
truth she told.
“What do you mean, Christopher?” he barked, pacing the room in
the opposite direction from me.
“Our son. Our brave, brave son,” she said.
“Brave?” he laughed. “Try stupid. The police are swarming all over
the area – there was a disturbance at the school. Everybody knows what he
is. But we can still turn it around. We can still make it work. He just has to
prove how powerful he is...”
His face was screwed up, almost as though it were hurting him to
think. He had an ugly expression. He looked at my mum. “So he came did
he?” he asked, his face getting right up into hers. “What did you say to him?
What does he know?”
“Everything,” I told him, stepping sharply out from the shadows.
I saw his ugly face crumble, obviously scared out of his wits – he
hadn’t expected me to rain on his parade and find out he had been keeping
my mother hostage.
“Chris - “ he began, his hands shaking, backing slowly away from
me as I walked towards him. “I can explain...”
“I Don’t want you to explain!” I yelled, clenching my fists in frustration.
My skin remained as it was, thanks to his poison. “I know everything, You’re
the lowlife I originally thought you were! You didn’t care for me, Everything
was for your little experiment!”
Tears were dripping slowly down his shaking face. His hand with the
gun was slowly starting to rise. “I did it .. for my country...” he murmured
feebly, looking around the room for inspiration for his pathetic excuse.
“For your country?! Hiding a woman away underground for two whole
years – two whole years and then experimenting on her son?!”
“My son...”
“No! I’m no son of yours...” My voice hurt as I threw the words out of
my mouth at him as hard as I could, as if hoping to send him flying with them.
“...You experimented on me, without asking for permission from me or my
Mum!”
“Had to be before you were... born...”
“So you wreck his life!? So he has to worry about being caught, always
looking behind his back and making sure he’s not found out!?” Mum had
demanded, standing up from the chair she was not really tied to. This startled
him and he pointed the gun at her.
102
 “Chris...” he spoke, high pitch, tears being soaked up by his stubble.
“We can still fix this – you won’t be arrested... we can show them all the good
you can do . . . we can do . . .”
“They won’t want to know me!” I bellowed, the dust from the roof falling
due to my immense decibels. “I’ve just seriously injured a guy playing rugby
because of what you put inside me! Everyone knows! They’ll all look down
upon me as a freak! II’ll be all over the media, there’ll be no escape!”
He seemed like he was trying to say something, bringing the gun
pointing from my mum to me again, whimpering like the coward he was.
“You’ve destroyed his life!” My mother shouted, making the gun switch
again so it was trained on her. “there’s no going back from this! you don’t
give a damn about him, it’s all about you and your experiments - desperately
trying to prove to yourself that you’re not the complete failure you really are!”
“You’re wrong!” my father shouted to her, obviously building his
confidence up again in the rage that consumed him. “I just made
some...miscalculations...”
“Miscalculations?” she laughed, sarcastically before spitting at his feet.
“You got everything wrong, you got your whole life wrong!”
“NOOOOOOO!” he yelled, and my eyes widened in terror as I saw his
hand flinch with the gun, aiming it definitely at Mum as he prepared to shoot
her. Everything seemed to go into slow motion as I watched his finger pull
back on the metal trigger . . . I was flying through the air in front of Mum, the
crack from the gun echoing in my ears . . .
Then everything sped up again. There was a pinging sound and I felt
something small on my chest and just as I landed, so did Dad – I had turned
metal in my jump and instead of the bullet hitting Mum, it’s intended victim, it
had ricocheted off me and hit him.
I walked over to him, cautiously, walking slowly to where his body lay,
lifeless. I peered over and looked away quickly, feeling queasy at the sight of
the small round hole in his forehead which thick, red liquid was oozing slowly
out of. He was dead. The bullet intended for my mum had killed the man who
had fired it.
I felt her hand on my shoulder, and I turned around, tears rolling from
my eyes. She hugged me, reassuring me, telling me again and again how
brave I was, but I still felt responsible for his death – if I hadn’t turned metal,
he wouldn’t be dead, no matter how much of a monster he was.
“He got what he deserved,” she told me, speaking softly, like I was
seven again, emerging from Pickmere Lake and coughing in the boat as she
assured me everything was going to be okay.
“Nobody deserved that,” I sniffed, thinking about the week we had
spent together in Fuerteventura. How he had seemed like such a wonderful
person... how it all had been an act...
103
 “What am I going to do Mum?” I asked her, the anger from Dad’s
actions clouding any guilt I was feeling – she was right, it had been his fault
and his fault alone.
She took a deep breath.
“We’re going to escape,” she said. She paused, but I listened, waiting
for her to continue. “Close your eyes for me Christopher, then I can explain
to you exactly what we’re going to do.” I did exactly as she told me, wiping
the tears from my eyes before doing so. “We’re going to go home, thank the
Cockrums for everything they have done for us, and then we’re going to
pack our bags and leave. We will board a plane and we will leave for America
– tonight. I have some friends there and I know they will be more than happy
to take us in while I earn some money and we get on our feet. Your picture
won’t make it over there – because so few people saw you and it is so
unbelievable, the media probably will not take it seriously, whether or not
there have been similar reports in Fuerteventura.” I imagined me and my
mum stepping onto the plane and leaving our tainted lives behind, only to
start afresh somewhere else, together at last – just the two of us. “There will
be no hassle,” she said. “It will be a smooth transition from one country to
another and we can really catch up after all those years of being apart.” I felt
my skin return to normal. I was smiling, I couldn’t help myself. It sounded so
wonderful. I couldn’t wait to start my new life with her. “Just the two of us...”
she said, and her voice seemed to be wavering a little – evidently she was
trying to stop herself crying after being reunited with her son after two years
of separation. “We will live so happily together...” She was holding my hand...
Then everything was gone.

Epilogue:

Dear Christopher,
I know you will never be able to read this, because today, I killed you - the
bravest and most caring person I have ever known. An evil man tainted your
life and made it so that you could have never been happy on earth, and so,
whilst you were content and unaware of what I was going to do, I used your
father’s gun and drew your life to a close. It won’t be long before I will hate
myself for doing what I did, but I did it because I didn’t want the rest of your
life to be a living hell. I did it because I loved you. I hope you can forgive me.

God bless.

Mum

104
 False Start
by Amy Acton

Cassie’s head hurt. What if she couldn’t follow through with this? What if he
was too nice to her? Would she be able to do it? “I have to,” she said to
herself. She couldn’t let her mum down. There was one reason and one
reason only why she was here. And that reason could not change.
Cassie stared at the house in front of her. It was a grand house. Something
told her she would have plenty of privacy. Three floors, a double door with
a huge knocker and a balcony. The driveway was gravel with four cars, all
with hood ornaments.
She started to walk down the driveway, thoughts and memories still
flashing across her mind. Finally she reached the door, took a deep breath
and knocked. Deep hollow knocks echoed through the house. She waited.
Then knocked again.
Finally someone came to the door. It was a woman. She looked in her late
thirties, wore a black pinafore with a white apron. Cassie guessed she was
a maid.
“I’m Marge,” the woman said.
“Hi, I’m Cassie,” she put out her hand to shake Marge’s.
Marge took it politely. “Martin!” She screamed into the house.
A small while later a man appeared at the door. He was balding, with some
wrinkles. He wore a grey striped suit, with a white shirt and black tie. He
just stared at her, then frowned.
Cassie walked towards him, “Hi Dad.”
“Cassie. You err ... look different.” He snorted.
“Well you haven’t seen me in 13 years Dad. I’m bound to have changed.”
She smiled.
“Yes, well.” He scowled and walked into the house without a further word.
“This won’t be a problem.” Cassie said to herself.

105
Marge walked uncomfortably down the steps and took her bags. “I’ll show
you to your room.”
They walked up two flights of stairs. Cassie’s room was to be on the third
floor. It was a large bedroom with an en-suite. There was even a sign on
the door reading “Cassie’s Room.”
“He’s had this room ready for years, wanting to call you. But he said it
never felt right.” Marge explained to Cassie.
“Wow,” She was speechless. “It’s so amazing.”
“If you need anything, just ring.” She said pointing towards a bell on the
wall.
“Thanks, I will.” Cassie replied.
“I’ll leave you to unpack.” Marge nodded and walked out of the room,
closing the door as she went.
Cassie jumped backwards onto her king sized bed. The soft covers rippled
under her. She looked around the room. There was a huge wardrobe with
mirror doors. She looked down to the side of the bed. There staring up at
her was a kitten. It was a grey tabby kitten. Around its neck was a note:

This kitten is for you. It should keep

you occupied. Marge will help
you look after it if need be.
Dad

“I’m going to find this so hard.” Cassie thought to herself whilst stroking
her new kitten. “What can I actually do to him?” she put on a fake thinking
face and giggled to herself. “I could swap the salt for the sugar. No that’s
too dumb. I could hide all his underwear. No, I wouldn’t like to go snooping
through his drawers. I know, I can destroy all of his work papers. I already
know he loves his work, that’ll show him.” She sat up at the end of the
bed, and put her kitten beside her.
“I think I’ll call you Rosie.” Cassie said, giving her a cuddle.
“Purrrrrr.” She replied.
Cassie took another look at the side of the bed. There was the most
gorgeous cat bed Cassie had ever seen. It was baby pink with a silk
border and decorated with bells. In it was a bundle of toys and a selection
of collars. Cassie chose the turquoise one.
Marge appeared at the door. “Dinner is ready downstairs.” She said.
“Ok, I’ll be down in a minute.” Cassie replied. She took a last look around
the room before she went downstairs; the posh laptop, the huge wardrobe
and the new mobile phone on her desk. “Well this certainly shows where
all the money went,” she thought to herself.

106
Sitting at the table Cassie started to feel uncomfortable with her dad
staring at her the whole time. “Can I have some more cheesecake?” she
asked.
Martin didn’t answer.
“Can I have some more cheesecake please?” she said a little louder.
Her Dad again didn’t answer, but continued to stare at her. It was an I-
hope-you-know-your-place-in-this-house-little-girl sort of look. She
scraped her plate making a high pitched screech with her fork
purposefully.
“You may be excused,” her Dad said.
“I don’t know why I even came.” She muttered to herself as she tucked in
her chair.
“What was that?” Martin asked.
“I’m going to my room,” she said without looking at him. She could hear
him tutting in the background as she walked up the stairs.”
She peeked into what appeared to be her dad’s bedroom. It had a huge
king sized bed with lots of pillows and a fluffy bed throw. Cassie also
noticed there was a huge desk with plenty of drawers. She realised how
very work related he was. She then walked up to her room and said hello
to her new kitten.
Cassie lay down beside Rosie on her bed. Rosie was purring quietly as
she stroked her softly behind the ears.
“Looks like I’ve already found your soft spot.” Cassie smiled. “I’m going to
tell you something, this is only because i know you won’t tell anybody
else.”
Rosie looked up at her as if she understood.
“Martin’s a very bad man. He ruined my life.”
Rosie looked confused.
“When I was little Martin divorced my Mum, he took her to court and took
all of our money away. He lived the good life while we lived in a trashy two
bed apartment. I hate him for that. I just hate him. Now I’m going to make
him pay.”
Rosie looked away.
“We’re going to ruin Martin’s life you and I. This is just the start.” Cassie
smiled an evil smile.

107
 In The Dark
by Claire Heine

It all began when Katie came to talk to us about the Elder’s Project. Of
course that is not what Katie would say. She’d say it began in a time that is
yesterday and tomorrow and eternally present. But then Katie’s a
storyteller. I’m not a storyteller. I am just the guy it happened to.

There we all were. It was that difficult time after lunch, when nobody felt
like doing any work. The teachers liked to call it the graveyard slot. No one
wanted to teach Form 7R after lunch. A little glimpse of sunlight was trying
to push its way in through the tall windows that were smeared with dirt
from the autumn showers. Miss Raynham had set out a chair for Katie and
patted it’s seat to make her sit down.

“Attention Class!” and she began to scratch her head. None of us like it
when Miss Raynham scratched her head. Her thin grey hair barely
covered her very white scalp. The merest touch of a fingernail on that
creepy skull showered her shoulders with dandruff. Mitch says if she ever
loses her job as a teacher she could earn a living making snow drifters for
the movies.

“Ahem” said Miss Raynham to grab our attention. “This is Katie, Katie
erm….”
We listened bemused. She had forgotten the guest’s name
“Winslet” prompts Mitch. . There are sudden smirks and giggles from the
other pupils in the class.
“Class!” shouts Miss Raynham feeling very agitated. She is a big lady. A
blob on legs.
“Katie Harding” she continues without a pause, “has come to speak to us
about the Elder’s Project. Is that right Katie?”
108
Attention transfers at once to the young girl facing us all. Katie is in her
twenties. Her long hair is piled up on her head, held in place with cheap
moon and stars clip of the sort you could buy on the market. But the clip
isn’t doing a very good job and most of her hair is making a bid for
freedom down Katie’s back. She wearing those brightly coloured clothes
that look like you’ve picked them at random from three different vats of
dye. We watch and wait.

“Hello” Katie said at last.

No one responds. Miss Raynham says “Hello Katie” in a strained voice
suggesting that we should have all greeted her. But we are not used to
guests in the class room. She shifts into a position as though she is
Goldilocks and does not feel comfortable in mummy bear’s chair.
“Thankyou for letting me visit”
“I…” begins Katie, but Miss Raynham is loosing her patience. She strides
to the front of the class,
“We are very fortunate to have the services of Katie, who is going to lead a
project between children from this class and the residents of Litchfield
Rest Home”
“Is that the one full of smelly scavengers?” asked Willow.
“No Willow -it is not the one that has a lot of smelly scavengers. This is
why we are all taking part in this project so that we all find out more about
what it is like to be old. Can anyone tell me what a rest home is?”
Mitch’s hand goes straight up right away. “It’s where you send the rest of
them – those you don’t want to live with any more” he says.
“No Benjamin Mitchell!” We always knew Miss was getting cross and fed
up with us when she called us by the name in her Register ‘It is where old
people go because they need to rest and relax from all the hustle and
bustle of modern life.

“In a time that was yesterday and tomorrow and eternally present” Katie
spoke suddenly. “There lived a prince who had been silent for as long as
anyone could remember.” Her voice was very soft and matter of fact. So
much so that even Mitch couldn’t bring himself to say “unlikely.”
“And” Katie continued,” his mother the Queen was heartbroken at her
son’s muteness and the King heartbroken at his wife’s grief. So it was that
on the princes eighteenth birthday the king issued a proclamation saying
that any man or woman who could make the prince speak would receive
the richest reward in the kingdom. However the penalty for those who tried
and failed would be instant death.”

109
“They tell Nursery stories at the nursery” Mitch says fiddling with the sharp
point of a pencil in between the fingertips of his hands.
“Does that mean,” Katie asks faster than Miss Raynham “You think this
class is too grown up for such tales?”
“Yes” Mitch says. “Except” he scans the fellow pupils in his class,”Maybe
Boret there.”

That was me. Thin with a pale complexion. I had always been a sickly kid.
Different to everybody else in the class because of my disability. My head
was much bigger than all the other kids, my lips were fat and very red
which seemed to show up more because of my pale, almost translucent
skin, and my hair was a shocking mass of yellow curls. The kids always
teased that you could not see my eyes behind the thick lenses of my
spectacles. My real name is Michael Roberts but Mitch started to call me
Boret and it caught on.

“Personally” Katie says “I think one never grows out of fairy tales. I think
fairy tales contain all the ways we experience good and bad.”
There are sudden murmurs as class discussions start to evolve. What had
this to do with the Elders Project we wondered?

“Right” shouts Miss Raynham her face was looking screwed up. “That is
quite enough, thankyou. The purpose of the Elder’s Project is as Katie will
explain at greater length to share experiences between young and old.
And to learn some manners perhaps!”

“The reason for me telling you a fairy tale is because we are going to be
telling stories,” Katie says pleasantly. “about our lives and those of the
Elders. When we see the residents they will want to talk about what you
do and you’ll find out what they did as children. And then were going to try
to make a piece of work that records the things that we have found out.

“Naturally” Miss Raynham,” not everyone will be able to take part in the
Project. Working space at Litchfield limits the numbers we can reasonably
send.”

“So we’ll be going to the home?” asked Derek.

“Yes on Wednesday afternoons. For the next four or five weeks. So” Miss
Raynham chin juts challengingly forward,” I am looking for ten volunteers.”

So that’s how the following Wednesday, I find myself at Litchfield rest

home, starting a project that’s going to change my life for ever.
110
The Litchfield lounge it like a dentists waiting room; green chairs lined up
against the walls, once you are in that room you feel isolated as the walls
are caved in as you move along. On top of the television set in the far
corner is a little ornament that looks very delicate.
We arrive after lunch and the residents are already seated. Some are on
green chairs perched on plastic cushions, others have brightly coloured
patchwork blankets tucked around on their knees and a walking stick near
by.
Their hush seems to fall on us as we enter the room. A disconsolate
decrepit hush.
A matron suddenly came up to myself and the other volunteers and said
“hello children please sit and make yourself comfortable” she was
benevolent.
Gratefully we sit. The residents shuffle and cough.

“Hello” says a relatively normal tall-looking man leaning down towards

me. “Who’s this then?”
“Michael” I whisper.
“Oh aye” he says. “What yer doing here Michael?”
Katie begins to explain. As she is the only person standing. She talks
briefly about the project and then suggests that we work in pairs.
“Try to move the chairs so that there is one big circle in the middle, then I
want you to introduce yourself to whoever is closest to you. They’ll be your
main partner, but of course we shall be sharing ideas later.”
As chance would have it, I’m still close to Mr relatively normal.
“I’m Michael,” I repeated quickly, to establish my claim.
“So yer said,” he replies mournfully. “I’m Albert”
There is something tender in his look, not a tenderness for me of course,
just something misty about his past and in that moment I indulge I few
warm thoughts of my own about my grandfather. I’m just thinking maybe
Albert will be alright and perhaps the Roberts luck is going to change
when a voice chisels through the room:

“I don’t want this one”

Everyone turns to the speaker. She is tall (even seated) white- haired ram-
rod backed and her perfectly still right index finger is pointing down at
Alice.
“Well” gestured Liz finch, the student teacher who up until this point might
as well have been invisible, “perhaps you would like to swap with Lucy.
Lucy?”
Lucy isn’t moving.
“Lucy?”
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“No,” says the white-haired woman. “I don’t want a girl.” The index finger
lifts and moves steadily. “I want a boy. In fact,” the finger stops mid-
swing,” I want him” she’s pointing at me.
Now you know those team games where there are two captains and they
each pick someone to be on their side turn after turn until there is only one
person left and no matter whether there ten or twenty players that last
person is always the same? The person who is never chosen whatever
the game? Well, that person’s me.

A moment later I am face to face with white-haired ram-rod. Up close, she

looks surprisingly frail and droopy. Her body is so thin and bloodless. You
can see the stains she has left on her top from sleeping.
“I’m Robert,” I say extending a polite arm.
“Edith” She replies stiffly, and quivers in her chair. “Edith Sorrel.”

“Well” says Katie, as the tea trolley finally retreated, “I like to tell you all a
story.”
“Oh aye” says Albert.
Edith Sorrel clasps her hands in her lap. And I have this weird sensation
that she’s holding herself trying to comfort herself.
“It’s about a silent prince and the young woman who wants to free him
from the curse that has rendered him mute. The prince’s mother and
father, the King and Queen, have promised the riches of their kingdom to
anyone who can make a young man speak. But for those who try and fail,
the penalty is instant death.”
“The young woman knew it would take more than skill or cunning or luck
to make the prince speak, for many had gone before her and as many had
lost their lives. So the young woman took herself into the forest where her
grandparents lived. And as they sat around the cottage after supper, she
told them her plan.”
“Oh my beloved,” cried her grandmother. “You know not what you ask.”
“Indeed I do, grandmother,” said the girl.” And that is why I’m here. I have
come to listen and to learn. For you and grandfather have lived long in the
forest and understand how it is that night turns into day and winter into
spring. And if this were not enough, you have lived long each other’s
hearts and so understand the dark and light of love, and if this were not
enough you have read many books and told many stories and so know
what makes a beginning and what make and end. I beg you grandparents;
share what you can with me, for I am eager to know what you know and to
carry your wisdom to the prince”
“Nurse,” shouts an elder “shut the curtains”
“I’ve nearly finished now” say Katie gently.
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“But you see the grandparents did tell the girl their wisdom. All night long
they spoke and she listened. And I was hoping we could do something
similar here.”

“Anything you’d like to share with me, “I say to Edith sorrel,”If I was going
to be pushed and suddenly died tomorrow?”
“No”
I start to push my wheelchair backwards and make a screeching sound on
the wheel.
“That’s me gone then.”
“What?” for the first time she seems caught off guard.
Fretted I say “dead” I repeat “I’m dead. Just twelve years old and dead.”
“Stop it” cried Edith sorrel. “Stop it at once”
“Can’t stop it. Sorry without wisdom, I’m a goner. Didn’t Katie say? Just
one or two old forest truths and I’ll be ok. You can save me. You do want
to save me, don’t you?”
She gives me that stare. “Of course. I’d give my life to save you. You know
that.”
“Oh. Right. Great. Well you’ve got to tell me something important then.”
“what?”
“I don’t know! You’re supposed to be telling me. Whatever the most
important thing in your life is. Was. Whatever.”
“Top floor flat. Chance house, twenty six st Albans.”
“What?”
“You can go there. Walk. It’s not far.”
“Sure” I say. “I’ll go right after school.”
“But why do you want me to go” I said concerned.
“Michael” you must not be afraid. Do you understand me? An
extraordinary boy. You can walk Michael”
I move backwards slightly “what?”
“I said you are the sort of boy who can walk and knows he can” she
smiles. “So you will go for me, wont you?”

After school that day I made my route decision the moment the school
gate is closed
It doesn’t really matter which northerly road take, Occam, The grove, St
Aubyns, they all arrive pretty much at the gas works and then it’s just a
few hundred yards to school. Today I select St Aubyns, which is a wide,
ugly street with gargantuan four floor buildings, most of which have been
turned into guest houses. One of them is a Cinderella hotel. It has a flight
ballroom steps up to its huge steps up to its huge front door. And painted
in gold the glass above the boarded front door, are the words: Chance
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House, 26 St Aubyns. Chance House is boarded up and I don’t just mean
with a few nails and a bit of chipboard. Each of the eight-foot ground floor
windows has been secured with a sheet of steel-framed, steel meshed
fibreglass. The front door is barricaded with criss cross of steal bars. Of
course it could be different around the back…….
The garden is empty, overgrown. There are dandelions in the long grass.
Bluebells and smashed white wine bottle the sun is remarkably warm. I
compose my breathing. There is steel mesh on the first window. And on
the second. There is no way I will be able to get into the house.

Then I see it. French doors on to the garden and mesh hanging free
ripped from the walls as it were paper.
I did not know what was happening everything happened with a sudden
notion. It was like I was hearing someone, someone telling to stand up
and walk. So I urged myself to stand up. I did it. But I could not feel my
legs. I don’t know who is moving my legs but I’m going towards that open
door.
The room has been stripped. There are brackets but no cupboards. On
the left hand wall is a rubble hole where a fireplace has been gouged out
and the floor strewn with paper envelopes and smashed bricks.
At the far end of the room is a glass door. An internal door which must
lead to the rest of the house. I look behind me and I step inside. The
stares to the next three floors were lopsided, and cracked there was
banister that look as I it was trying to make to stairs look straight. I start to
walk up the stairs. I stick to the banister side so that I can enable myself to
reach the top floor. The top floor door is open, there is slightly more light
here, partly because of the unmeshed windows but also because the two
of the rooms look over the front of the house, so there is some filtering
streetlight. I turn towards the end of the room. The door is as I left it. Ajar.

The following Wednesday I was to meet with Edith sorrel and to ask her so
many questions.
The matron said “She does not want to come out as she is not well so I
insist that you go home and don’t visit her until she is well.”
“Please I must see her I have been working on a project with her, she
knows me I am Micheal Roberts”
She hesitated and turned her back on me. I waited till she went around the
next corner. Then I pushed quietly over to her room. She lay there
piteously and quietly. Her face was white and she felt cold. “It’s me
Michael”
Her body started to judder but she never spoke.

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Then I man came into the room remorsefully and confused he ask who I
was.
“I am Michael Roberts I’m on the project”
“I am Ernest” he replies edgily. “Ernest Sorrel”
“oh” I say.” You must be her brother then”
“No, not exactly.” His eyes bore into me.” I’m her husband”
I try to keep my face neutral but, as Edith Sorrel told me emphatically that
she didn’t have a husband it isn’t easy.
“No doubt she didn’t mention?” he smiles or maybe its grimace.
“I’m sure she would have done” I say uncomfortably.
“I mean if we’d have talked about thing like that. But we didn’t. We just sort
of talked about the project.”
“Oh. And what project that, Michael?”
“The art project. About your lives and ours.”
“I see.”
“She said about the chance house.”
“What!” his detached tone vanishes instantly. He appears astounded. “She
spoke of the Chance House?”
I nod.
“Oh” he turns towards her “Oh Edith.” He stretches out, as if to touch her
but his reaching hand falls short.

At that point the matron came in to check on her she has a worried
expression. She tells both myself and Ernest that Edith sorrel was
diagnosed with cancer. And that we should leave.

Ernest told me that thirty years ago they had a 12 year old son “David
Sorrel” who fell from top floor of the chance house.

For weeks there was no news. Then the local newspaper came there was
news of Edith sorrel that she has as you would say ‘survived long enough’

The stories in the newspaper that day mentioned “David Sorrel age 12”
died from a fatal accident that happened in the house I climbed. My
parents asked me if Mrs Sorrel mistakened me with her son David
I would say nothing or mention anything.

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