Bitter Sixteen Read online

  ‘That doesn’t usually stop them when they want to make life difficult,’ muttered Eddie.

  ‘On a scale of boy-who-won’t-attract-any-attention to murderous drug dealer, where does Stanly come?’ asked Sharon. I had to bite my lip not to laugh. ‘And anyway, he looks about seventeen, maybe eighteen, we’ll just say he’s left school already and he’s working at 110th Street. If it comes up. Which it won’t. And as for criminals: number one, how often do we get accosted by criminals, and number two, have you ever met anyone Connor or yourself couldn’t take care of?’

  I saw Connor’s eyes flash with pride when she said that, and Eddie nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Stanly’s not bad at taking people either,’ piped up Daryl. ‘He flung Eggs Benedict, what was it? Twenty feet?’

  Everyone looked at Daryl. Sharon and Connor looked amused, but Eddie seemed more worried than ever. ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Something like that. But it’s not . . .’

  Daryl was in no mood to back down. ‘He’s amazing,’ he said. ‘He threw someone his own size using just his mind. And he can almost fly!’

  ‘Flight, eh?’ said Connor, impressed. ‘That’s something I’ve not seen before. We’re going to have to check out your powers, I’m very interested to see what you can do.’

  ‘Mutual,’ I said.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Sharon. ‘But first, I think we should eat something. Connor isn’t working until tomorrow, so he can take Stanly to see Skank. Until then, we can concentrate on getting to know one another. Does that sound all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Great.’

  Eddie nodded. ‘OK.’

  Sharon smiled her calming smile. ‘Good. Now what does every­body fancy?’

  After a large lunch of chilli and rice, Eddie got up and said, ‘OK, I’d better go. I’ve got a couple of things to do. I’ll pop back later.’ He looked at me. ‘You’re cool?’

  ‘I’m cool,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ He left.

  Connor shook his head. ‘Wow. I haven’t seen him this agitated for at least a week.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Sharon.

  Connor raised his hands. ‘I was just saying. You know I love him, but he can be a bit . . . neurotic. Woody Allen dressing up as Dante.’

  ‘Dante?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you not get a wicked Devil May Cry vibe from his hair?’

  I laughed. ‘Ah. That Dante. Yeah, I see what you mean.’

  ‘He’s just worried,’ said Sharon, starting to clear away the plates. ‘And he’s actually got a reason to be worried, for a change. Pudding?’

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks. Full.’

  ‘Daryl?’

  Daryl shook his big head. ‘No, thank you. I’m also of the full.’

  We cleared up, then Connor said, ‘OK, Stanly. Do you want five bars rest or are you up for showing us what you can do?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, eager to be doing something. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘Great.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘Go and stand at the other end of the kitchen.’

  I obeyed, and waited. Sharon was sitting on the counter, watching with interest. Connor rummaged around in the cupboard, and withdrew three juggling balls. ‘We’ll start small,’ he said. ‘So you’re . . . telekinetic, would you put it like that?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘OK, let’s start there. Not really the right room for flying. I want you to stop the balls using just your mind. Try not to raise your hand or anything. If you ever had to use your powers out in the real world, you’d want to do it inconspicuously.’

  I nodded. Connor raised one of the balls. ‘Ready?’

  I nodded again, and Connor threw the ball. I flexed my mind, but the ball kept coming. I flexed harder. It was still coming. I closed my eyes and tried to make a net with my brain. Nothing hit me. Cautiously I opened my eyes and saw that the ball was hanging motionless about an inch from my nose. I breathed deeply and it dropped to the floor. Connor was grinning. ‘That was good,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll try to increase the range.’

  He threw another ball. This time it hit me in the forehead. ‘Shit,’ I said.

  Sharon looked amused and concerned at the same time. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Connor. ‘Let’s try again.’ He threw the last ball. I did the net thing, and it stopped a full two feet from my face. I kept it there, completely still in the air.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Connor. ‘Now can you send it back at me?’

  I tried to visualise the force coming from my brain. I could almost see it, a fist made of transparency closing around the ball, and I pulled the fist back as far as it would go, snapped taut, a coiled spring . . . and let rip. The ball flew towards Connor with more velocity than I’d intended, but his expression didn’t waver, and he caught it a few centimetres from his face. Sharon clapped. ‘Very nice!’

  Daryl was looking appreciative. ‘That’s the way to do it.’

  Connor tossed the ball from one hand to the other. ‘You want to go again?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  For the next ten minutes he threw the ball at me and I caught it without moving my hands. Half an hour later I was stopping it when it had barely left Connor’s hands, and I was feeling more confident and started to show off, dribbling the ball between his legs as he tried to catch it and bouncing it off the ceiling. Finally the effort started to hurt. Sweat was appearing on my forehead and dripping into my eyes, and I felt weak and lightheaded. The ball dropped and I leaned against the fridge. ‘You OK?’ asked Connor, looking concerned.

  ‘Bendigedig,’ I said, but my voice was heavy. ‘Just . . . need to sit down.’ Connor led me over to the table and pulled out a chair, and I fell gratefully into it. My vision was slightly dim and had to catch up with my eyes as I moved my head around. It was like being stoned, but in a bad way. Sharon poured me a glass of water and I gulped it down, and within a few minutes I felt fine again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Connor. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that . . .’

  ‘You didn’t make him show off,’ said Daryl. ‘He did that all by himself.’

  ‘It was pretty impressive, though,’ said Connor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘Very. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ I stood up. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Next?’ asked Connor. ‘Well . . . first of all, what does “bendigedig” mean?’

  ‘It’s Welsh for “brilliant”, innit butt,’ said Daryl.

  ‘Ah. OK, thanks. Second, “butt”?’

  ‘Welsh slang term of endearment. Like “mate”.’

  Connor nodded. ‘Great. Instructive. OK, thirdly . . . I think a proper break is in order. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Bendigedig, butt,’ said Sharon. She looked at Daryl. ‘Did I do it right?’

  ‘A-plus,’ said the dog. ‘Now say “Llanfair-pwllgwyn-gyllgo-gery-chwyrn-drobwll-llanty-silio-gogo-goch”.’

  Sharon blinked. ‘OK. So . . . tea?’

  That evening we all sat in the living room, chatting. Eddie had returned from his errands and was sitting cross-legged on the carpet. I was in a leather armchair, Sharon and Connor were on the couch and Daryl was curled up in front of the open fire. It was a really nice room, with a big TV and hi-fi system, and various paintings and framed photographs on the walls. Connor and Eddie were sipping beers, and Sharon was drinking Shloer (the speech impediment drink, I thought, feeling a pang of homesickness). I wasn’t thirsty.

  ‘So I’ll take you to work with me tomorrow,’ said Connor. ‘You can meet Skank. You’ll definitely like him. He’s a wee bit eccentric but a really decent guy. He doesn’t care about the law an
d stuff like that, he wants people to do what they want so he won’t worry about your age or your . . . backstory.’

  ‘Does he know about . . . you know?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘He knows.’

  ‘He’s safe,’ said Eddie.

  I nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed by everything. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For all of this. I wasn’t expecting so much . . . I mean . . . I wasn’t expecting you to be dicks or anything, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this much . . . kindness. You didn’t need to . . .’

  ‘We’ve all had to find our feet in this city under difficult circumstances,’ said Sharon, ‘and we’ve all had to rely on other people’s kindness. So there’s no need to worry.’

  I smiled. ‘OK. No more worrying.’ Yeah, that’s the likeliest of all the likelihoods. I turned to Eddie. ‘So where do you work, then?’

  ‘Bouncer,’ said Eddie. ‘You’re lucky you arrived last night, that was the only night this week that I was off-duty.’

  ‘How late do you usually work?’

  ‘Five is usually the limit,’ said Eddie. ‘The club I work at shuts then.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘It’s called Twilight,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Really?’ asked Daryl. ‘Is it all sparkly? And full of pale pussy-whipped vampires and lunkheaded werewolves and girls who should know better?’

  Eddie fought a smirk. ‘I did ask my boss if he wanted to change the name, actually, but he was adamant. It’s been Twilight for fifteen years, and it’s staying that way.’

  ‘Brave man,’ said Daryl.

  ‘No-one’s going to call him on it,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s a powerful guy, very well-connected. Slightly shady but . . . good. I got the job after I saved him from a mugger. Lucky coincidence.’

  ‘You beat a lot of people up?’ I asked, casually.

  ‘Mostly I try to avoid it,’ said Eddie, ‘but you know how it is. You’re behind some old dear in the post office, you’re in a hurry . . .’ He finished the last of his beer. ‘Pay’s pretty good, though.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should probably get going.’ He got up and Connor put out his hand. Eddie grasped it and they embraced briefly, and Sharon hugged him gently. Eddie looked at me and frowned. ‘Do we hug yet?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Eddie looked awkward. ‘Well . . . neither do I.’

  Connor laughed. ‘I can see this going on for a long time, so on behalf of both parties, yes. You do hug. Now get on with it.’

  We did the handshake-hug thing, which made me feel like one of the boys despite myself, and Eddie said, ‘You’ll be —’

  ‘— absolutely fine,’ said Sharon. ‘Stop worrying or I’ll get offended.’

  Eddie smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry.’ He went out into the hall and opened the door, turning back for a second to say ‘Thanks’. Then he headed down the path into the darkening evening.

  ‘Bye!’ I called. Sharon and Connor waved, and shut the door.

  Connor turned to me, a mischievous look in his eye. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here’s the plan. There’s an old playground near here, rarely used by anyone. Very occasionally there are people there, teenagers mostly, but they won’t be a problem.’ There was no pride in his voice, just a quiet confidence that was reassuring. ‘If we go there some time after ten we can have a little demonstration. To be honest, we wouldn’t normally use our powers out and about if we can help it . . . but it’s a special occasion. And I’m pretty keen to see what you can do.’

  ‘Can I see what you two can do as well?’ I asked.

  Connor nodded. ‘Quid pro quo.’ He yawned. ‘OK. In the meantime, I suggest that we watch some TV and load up on caffeine. You and Daryl like films?’

  I smiled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WE ENDED UP watching Spirited Away, which felt quite fitting, and when the film had finished Connor stood up and stretched. ‘Ready?’

  I nodded. We went out into the hall, and Connor pulled on his boots and grabbed a brown leather jacket from a peg in the hall. ‘Do you have a coat?’ he asked, slinging a sports bag over his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah.’ I still had my Romeo trenchcoat.

  ‘You going to wear it? Chilly out.’

  I nodded, ran upstairs and retrieved the coat from the pile of things by my bed. I put it on, and as I left I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The mish-mash of baggy jeans, trainers, hoody and trenchcoat looked pretty cool. I liked it. My new dark avenger look. Don’t count your chickens, I thought. You’re not a Jedi yet.

  Downstairs, Sharon had put on a very long blue coat with grey toggles. I looked down at Daryl. ‘Game?’

  ‘Game,’ said Daryl. There was something in his voice that I couldn’t work out, but I left it.

  The night was brisk and the moon was large, and I put my hands in the cavernous pockets of my coat and wrapped it around my body, glad that Connor had suggested it. ‘So where’s this playground?’ I asked.

  ‘A bus and a walk away,’ said Sharon. ‘It’s near the site of one of the Smiley Joe kidnappings, that’s why no-one tends to go there.’

  ‘Smiley Joe?’ I asked. ‘That online horror story thing?’

  Connor gave Sharon a swift look that jarred with his laid-back persona. Sharon looked away. ‘The child kidnappings,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. What? We walked, and the silence was awkward, and I could feel that Daryl’s curiosity was as bright and sharp as mine, so I ignored it and pressed on, in as nonchalant a voice as possible. ‘So, what, Smiley Joe’s real?’

  ‘Smiley Joe’s nothing,’ said Connor. ‘A name they gave this phantom kidnapper.’

  ‘The one with no fingerprints,’ said Sharon, ‘and no DNA evidence.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Connor. Humour was creeping back into his voice, but there was an acidic edge to it. ‘There is no such thing as Smiley Joe. It’s just reality and stories getting mashed together.’

  ‘I’m getting mixed signals here,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘This is one of the rare occasions where Connor and I disagree. I believe in Smiley Joe.’

  ‘Who is Smiley Joe, then?’ I persisted. ‘A real person? I read a bit about it. I thought it was just stories at first, but then there was something about some kidnappings. Did someone take the name from the stories, or did the story —’

  ‘I told you,’ said Connor, ‘it’s bullshit.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so sure,’ said Sharon, mildly. ‘You, me, Eddie and now Stanly can all do things that regular human beings can only dream about. Earlier on Stanly was dribbling a ball with the power of his mind. Daryl is a talking beagle. How can you not be open to the possibility? After everything we’ve seen . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Connor. ‘Everything we’ve seen. I accept that there’s some bizarre stuff out there, Sharon, but until someone actually finds and shows me some monstrous man with a giant head, I’m staying skeptical.’

  ‘Or until someone makes us fight it,’ said Sharon.

  Something changed when she said that. Connor had been irritated before, unwilling to have a discussion, but now he looked genuinely angry. ‘I’m not having this conversation,’ he said. ‘OK? It’s just some psycho, a messed-up human being, who needs to be put behind bars before he ruins any more lives. Nothing more.’

  Sharon said nothing and we carried on towards the bus stop. Daryl and I exchanged silent what the hells, but neither of us was brave enough to broach the subject again.

  Monstrous man? Giant head?

  Things were definitely getting weirder.

  Although we got off the bus in a busy, friendly-seeming area, the comparatively short walk felt like it took us a long way. One minute there were people and car noises and general hubbub, the next just empty streets and shadows, and finally
the playground, which looked less than inviting. I could feel Daryl’s agitation. This wasn’t Tref-y-Celwyn any more. I wasn’t sure it was London. Maybe it wasn’t even a real place.

  There is something inherently creepy about empty playgrounds at the best of times, especially at night, and this one was maintaining the tradition admirably. The slides and monkey bars and climbing frames all looked slightly crooked, silhouetted against the orange murk, and one solitary swing creaked and moved minutely as though it had recently been used, although the others were perfectly still. Everywhere I looked I saw little children with red eyes giggling, or the outlines of big giant heads. I looked to my companions for reassurance, and found it in Connor’s easy, unruffled stride as he casually went and sat down on a bench by the swings, and in Sharon’s smile, which was luminous, even in the dark, as she sat on a swing and watched. Even Daryl was putting on a brave face.

  Jesus, Stanly. It’s a playground. Engage wimp factor 9.9, why don’t you? Oh yeah, you’re already there. Pull it together. Immediately.

  I must have looked as worried as I felt because Connor laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Nobody really comes here. Kids are too scared, and I doubt that the toughest gun-toting heroin dealers in London would do their business in this playground. Even the teenagers who come here don’t tend to hang around late.’

  I felt slightly better. Slightly.

  ‘OK,’ said Connor. ‘Let’s try some flying, shall we?’

  ‘I can’t really fly,’ I said.

  ‘You can almost,’ said Daryl.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Show us what you can do,’ said Sharon, gently.

  I nodded, and tried to push all of my negative vibes, performance anxiety and other general worries into a locked chest at the back of my skull. Then I forced the lid shut and wrapped it in chains, and dropped it to the very bottom of a deep, dark cerebral ocean. Calm. I was Rick Blaine again. Cool. Kool and the Gang.

  I opened my eyes without realising that I’d closed them and ran straight at the swings, planted my foot halfway up one of the metal support struts and made as many upward steps as I could before gravity started to get pissed off. When that happened I pushed away and pretended that physics was rubbish, that everything my teachers had told me was fantasy and wild theories, hogwash and balderdash . . . and it worked. I was in the air and I wasn’t coming down. I stayed there, suspended, and let myself down slowly when I felt like it, and not a second before. I landed with perfect grace and grinned. I was definitely getting closer to mastering it. Sharon and Connor were clapping, and Daryl was wagging his tail. ‘Skills,’ he said.