Copyright Š 2013 retained by contributors. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor. Published by the Bath Spa University Presses, Newton Park, Bath BA2 9BN, United Kingdom, in April 2013. All characters in this anthology, except where an entry has been expressly labelled as non-fiction, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover design by Alice Bowsher Illustrations by BA (Hons) Graphic Communications students, Bath Spa University Project managed by Caroline Harris for Harris + Wilson Typeset by Jennifer Moore Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire Sponsored by the Bath Spa University Research Centre for Creative Writing.
Edited by Lu Hersey
About Very Big Things I met many of the stories in this anthology early in their lives – meeting them again now is wonderful, like seeing the children of a friend after many years: when you first met they were charming, lovable, if perhaps a little misbehaved, and now, as grown-ups, they are astounding, complex, fully-formed human beings, who steal your heart all over again. Nicola Davies The quality of writing being produced on this course increases year on year. These are writers who have been through the process, been taught about the industry, how to critique and how to edit. It's so important in this 'straight-to-Kindle' age that there are still new writers out there who want to hone their skills before publishing. I'm so proud of my affiliation with the MA in Writing for Young People. It's where true talent is nurtured and where writing careers blossom. CJ Skuse I absolutely loved teaching this bunch of talented, hard-working and thoughtful students. I have no doubt that many of the stories contained within this cover will be ones we see again on bookshelves, on prize lists and talked about as the next 'very big things'. Hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed watching them begin. Lucy Christopher Once again the students from the Bath Spa Writing for Young People MA have produced a sparkling collection of work that will keep young readers turning the pages late into the night. Fabulous stuff! Steve Voake
Contents Acknowledgements / 9 Introduction / by Julia Green / 10
HB Alexander / Charlie 001: You Only Live Twice / 16 Blondie Camps / Control / 30 Sophie Cleverly-Edwards / Ruby and Ivy / 40 Charlett Goretzka / Chalk / 50 Alex Hart / Life Force / 60 Lu Hersey / Deep Water / 70 David Hofmeyr / Stone Rider / 80 Kris Humphrey / Gateway / 90 Laura James / Smoke / 100 Max O’Sullivan / Walls / 112 Sîan Patrick / The All and the Everything / 122 Laura Temple / The Storykeeper’s Apprentice / 134
Illustrators / 143
Acknowledgements The writers in Very Big Things would like to thank those who helped us on our journey. The following people deserve a massive bouquet of flowers and a magnum of champagne – but they get a mention here instead. • Julia Green, amazing Programme Leader and tutor, always supportive, understanding and enthusiastic about our work. • Our tutors – Elen Caldecott, Lucy Christopher, Nicola Davies, Julia Green, Jonathan Neale, CJ Skuse, Mimi Thebo and Steve Voake – for their insights and helpful advice. • Publishing module tutors Janine Amos and John McLay for sharing their industry expertise. • Tricia Lynn and all the excellent support staff at Corsham. • The illustration team, led by Tim Vyner, from the School of Art and Design at Bath Spa University, including Sean Bastin, Alice Bowsher, Ailbhe Ní Chaoimh, Joe Gamble, Sarah Joy Gordon, Sarah Hawkins, Eleanor Joy Holmes, Elliot Kruszynski, Olivia Laskey, Hatty Leith, Alice Russell, Lavinia Tyler and Carla Stobbs for bringing our tales to life with their stunning artwork. • Cover designer Alice Bowsher for our brilliant cover. • Copy editor Nicola Presley and typesetter Jennifer Moore. • Our team of editors – Kris Humphrey, Max O’Sullivan and Sîan Patrick – who put in a lot of time and energy scouring everyone’s work for mistakes and typos. • Behind-the-scenes support team HB Alexander, Blondie Camps, Sophie Cleverly-Edwards, Charlett Goretzka, Alex Hart, David Hofmeyr, Laura James, Laura Temple. • Caroline Harris – for all her hard work getting our anthology organised. Thank you. Lu Hersey, editor, on behalf of the MA Writing for Young People class of 2012 9
Introduction Great oaks from tiny acorns grow … We have been running the specialist MA in Writing for Young People for eight years now, and we are proud of the success of our students. At last count, more than 20 graduates from the MA had secured a publication deal, with a range of different publishers including Andersen, Bloomsbury, Chicken House, Gullane, Hot Key Books, Meadowside, Nosy Crow, Orion, Oxford University Press, Quercus, Scholastic and Simon & Schuster; many graduates have found literary agents to represent them. The published books range from picture books for very young children (Karen Hughes’ Baby Badger’s Wonderful Night) to challenging fiction for young adults (CJ Skuse; Jim Carrington), taking in all the age ranges in between: Elen Caldecott’s funny, touching stories about contemporary families for eight to 12-year-olds; Gill Lewis’s prizewinning novel about an osprey (Skyhawk); Sally Nicholls’ awardwinning Ways to Live Forever, which has recently been made into a film; Marie-Louise Jensen’s historical novels for teenagers, and Sam Gayton’s magical adventure story with a heart, The Snow Merchant. Recent additions to the list include Maudie Smith’s quirky, funny and touching stories about Opal Moonbaby, for seven to nine-yearolds; Che Golden’s The Feral Child; Sarah Hammond’s original and sensitive novel for teenagers, The Night Sky in my Head, and Fleur Hitchcock’s funny and engaging story for younger readers, Shrunk. New for 2013 are Karen Saunders’ delightful, funny novel for younger teens, Me, Suzy P; Sheila Rance’s stunning fantasy novel Suncatcher; Emma Carroll’s ghostly Frost Hollow Hall; Alison Rattle’s dark historical novel The Quietness, and CJ Harper’s dystopia The Disappearance. These books are evidence of the success of the course in helping students to write fiction in many different genres, for different ages and kinds of readers. Our aim is to help each student create the very best manuscript they can. We do this through a rigorous programme of reading and 10
writing. In weekly workshops the students hone their craft, discussing issues of character, plot, structure, viewpoint, voice; learn the essential skills of re-visioning and re-writing; play and experiment; try out different ways of telling their story; give each other feedback, and become better writers and readers as a result. We read, talk about, analyse, criticise and enthuse about classic and contemporary children’s books as well as write them. All our tutors are writers for children; this year they have included award-winning authors Lucy Christopher, Elen Caldecott, CJ Skuse, Mimi Thebo and Steve Voake. We are fortunate to draw on the experience of many people in the children’s publishing industry, including the artistic director of Bath Children’s Literature Festival, John McLay, our author-in-residence, Marcus Sedgwick, and visiting agents and editors. Our most recent exciting news is the appointment of our new Professor in Writing for Young People, David Almond. We select our students carefully from the many applications we receive, and we nurture them well. However, there are things that can’t be taught: the passion and imagination, creativity, energy and innate talent that each student must bring with them. I believe you will find evidence of all these things in the extracts in this new anthology from the class of 2011-12. The stories are as diverse as the students themselves; in this collection you will find excerpts from a high-action, funny thriller for 9-12 year-olds; a spy story with a heart for younger readers; a school story about twins set in the 1930s; a ghost story with a difference for teenagers, and a mysterious, watery story set in Cornwall. There’s a dramatic real-life story dealing with issues of class and the pressures put on teenagers; an exciting and original science fiction story, and several fantasy/futuristic stories with remarkable, powerfully imagined settings and exciting plots. Strong characters, memorable settings and striking, original voices will challenge, entertain and delight you. There’s something here for readers of all ages and interests. The first tiny ‘acorns’ of these stories were planted and took root in the workshops on the MA. They were nourished and supported 11
Introduction
over the year (two years for the part-time students). Now they’ve grown and flourished and reach high … and the sky’s the limit. I can’t wait to see what happens next! Julia Green
Julia Green is the Course Director of the MA Writing for Young People. Her novels for teenagers include Blue Moon; Baby Blue; Hunter’s Heart (Puffin); Breathing Underwater; Drawing with Light and Bringing the Summer (Bloomsbury). Tilly’s Moonlight Fox for younger readers is published by Oxford University Press.
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HB Alexander As a child, HB Alexander attended 13 schools, lived in lots of different towns and many countries, including Denmark, Germany and the USA. Making friends took time, but curling up with a good read was instant fun. Books were inspirational. At eight, HB became a gang leader. The gang made their headquarters in the cellar under the house. They were pirates one month, roaming the streets, seeking treasure. Next they were spies, observing the neighbours through binoculars from the trees. Charlie’s adventures re-create the spirit of those escapades. His adventure You Only Live Twice is the first of many. h.alexander002@gmail.com
About Charlie 001: You Only Live Twice Charlie’s summer holidays are ruined. Mum’s taking Dad to visit the hospital practically every day. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Mum’s arranged for Charlie to help their creepy neighbour with her garden. Then he finds a mysterious message in the kitchen cupboard: SAM’S MISSING What does it mean? Charlie decides to find out because he’s a secret agent on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Charlie is 001, the best spy ever – that is, until a girl called Blue comes along … Who is Sam and why does he need to be found? H B Alexander keeps you guessing right to the end. Children’s fiction, age 9-12. Adventure mystery, spy thriller, UK.
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Charlie 001: You Only Live Twice (extract) Chapter One: A Sunny Sunday. Operation JAMES Charlie was in the Spitfire. Flying high above the clouds. The metal body rattled, cracking like pistol shots. The wings were wobbling either side. The engine roared – deafening – it started to choke. ‘Charlie to Control. Mayday. Mayday.’ Below, the choppy dark sea. At last, ahead, the beach at Silver Bay. The Spitfire shuddered. Charlie shook from top to toe. The radio crackled, ‘Control to Charlie, you’re going down.’ Time to bail out. He opened his eyes, kicked the duvet back and rolled out of bed. ‘Come on, Charlie,’ he said, picking himself up off the floor. Outside the birds were madly singing, but the house was quiet. His new Vip watch shimmered on his wrist. It blinked 0505. Good, Mum and Dad would be asleep. The bedroom was a blur. Charlie found his glasses, and the room shot into focus. His model planes hanging from hooks in the ceiling like a flock of birds; next to the sleek form of Concorde, the Spitfire looked small and shabby. He and Dad finished putting it together yesterday. And … Dad had shouted at him, for no reason. He glimpsed his thin outline in orange pyjamas in the mirror. His dark eyes, huge and round behind the thick lenses. ‘These new glasses make me look like an owl. I told Mum they would.’ He ran a hand through his hair – rearranged the tangle of brown curls – experimented with a grin, raised an eyebrow and whispered, ‘Best get going, 001. Operation JAMES.’ 0515 hours. Taking stock. Charlie faced the bank of cream kitchen cupboards. 001 needed provisions. 17
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He checked the fridge. Nothing there. Probably because Mum hadn’t done the big shop on Wednesday. They’d taken Dad to the hospital instead. But Mum had bought chocolate biscuits in the village shop yesterday. They must be somewhere. He searched behind jars and in tins. He climbed on a chair to look in the upper cupboards. No … The Vip flashed 0525. He started to hunt in the lower cupboards. There, something was tucked away, next to the tins of tomatoes and tuna. Maybe a bar of chocolate? Mum loved chocolate and had a habit of hiding that as well – not just from him, from Dad too, otherwise she never got any. No … A brown envelope. What was it doing there? There was nothing on the front or the back – no name, no address – and it was sealed. Should he tear it open? He hesitated. What would a secret agent do? Open it. Now? No … he had a mission to complete. This could be a new assignment. He’d check it out later. He pushed the envelope into his pyjama pocket. Where were those biscuits? He reached into the shadows of the saucepan cupboard. In here …? His fingers touched slippery paper. ‘Yes!’ He pulled the packet of biscuits out triumphantly. CLANG. CLATTER. CRACK. A saucepan lid fell from the shelf and spun on the floor. The sound vibrated around the kitchen. He held his breath. Listened. No sound from upstairs. Phew … Mum would be cross, especially if he woke Dad up this early. ‘Control,’ he whispered into his Vip. ‘Is it safe to proceed? Proceed 001. Go. Time for this mission is short.’
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0820 hours. Mission accomplished. The biscuits were gone. The Bond film finished. The house was quiet. No sign of Mum or Dad. He smiled to himself; Sundays could be good like that. What now? His new DVD? He knew Dad wanted to see it with him. He could always watch it again with Dad. The First of the Few. A really old film – 1942. On the front cover, it had a brilliant picture of a Spitfire. Another present from Dad! Dad had seriously gone overboard this birthday. He’d given him loads of presents, including the Vip. Not even Dad had a Vip. Disguised as a watch, the Vip was one cool gadget; every secret agent should have one. It was a mobile phone, a torch, a camera, a super-calculator, had loads of games, and more. The Vip was advertised as versatile, indestructible and portable, the latest in communication for all very important people. Q could have invented it for James Bond. Charlie preferred to think Vip was short for viper, because it lay curled round his wrist ready to strike. He couldn’t wait to tell his best friend Greg he’d got one. 0827 hours. Mmm … too early to ring Greg. It was the best birthday present ever, really expensive, but Dad hadn’t stopped at the Vip. He’d given him the birdwatching camouflage suit, the model Spitfire kit, and taken him into town – just the two of them – and they’d chosen this film together. Come to think of it, since the sudden hospital visit, both Dad and Mum had been acting strange. 0839 hours. Secrets. THUD, THUMP, THUD. Someone was coming. Charlie stuffed the biscuit wrapper down the back of the sofa, dashed across the room, and shut the TV cupboard doors to hide the film playing on the screen. ‘Charles.’ Charlie swung round and leant against the closed cupboard doors. He could hear The First of the Few music seeping through the wood. ‘Hi, Dad.’ 19
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Dad’s tall figure in a white dressing gown filled the doorway. ‘What’re you doing?’ Charlie’s heart beat with guilt. ‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing?’ ‘Well, watching TV.’ ‘Oh, I see.’ Dad ran his hand through his blonde curls. ‘I’m about to make some tea and toast. Do you want some?’ ‘Can I have scrambled eggs?’ ‘Sure.’ Dad disappeared. The door swung slowly shut. ‘Phew.’ Charlie put the film away. At the kitchen door, he heard voices. ‘… you can’t, darling.’ Mum sounded upset. ‘Look, I’m doing breakfast.’ ‘Oh, James, now we’ve had the results back, we do need to talk to Charles.’ ‘Not now.’ Dad sounded irritated. The door opened, and Mum nearly knocked Charlie off his feet. ‘Oh… sorry, Charles …’ She fled past him. He saw she was crying. Dad was cracking eggs into a saucepan. He turned round and gave Charlie a weak smile. ‘Scrambled eggs will be with you in five.’ ‘Thanks, Dad.’ The silence made Charlie feel uncomfortable. Why was Mum upset? What did they need to talk to him about? He didn’t dare ask. He bolted down the scrambled eggs. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he muttered, rushing out. In his bedroom, he flung off his pyjamas. As they hit the bed, the brown envelope fell to the floor. He’d forgotten about that. He picked it up. It wasn’t addressed to anyone, so it wouldn’t be rude to open it. Would it? ‘Charlie to Control,’ he said to his Vip, ‘Secret papers found.’ Tearing open the envelope, he found a photograph; a man with eyebrows that looked like caterpillars, standing proudly in front of 20
a weird machine. It was like a bicycle with wings or a bird on a bike. Charlie didn’t recognise the man. On the back, someone had written: MISSING – SAM and two telephone numbers. What was it doing in their kitchen cupboard? Double weird. He smiled. A message from Control to 001; a new mission – to find Sam. ‘Yes …’ He opened his green spy book and found his last entry: Operation JAMES You Only Live Twice 5th 007 film, 1967
Underneath he wrote using his tiniest secret writing. He grinned, remembering how he and Greg had perfected the tiny writing at school. The teacher got quite annoyed, telling them she needed a magnifying glass to read their work. This puzzled them both. Why was she so cross? That was the exact idea. Mission successful. Completed 0820 hours Sunday 22.07
Then he wrote: Operation SAM MISSING SAM photo of man and winged machine
Copying the telephone numbers in underneath. 01341 544322 01323 689469
He’d try ringing them later. Date, place and time: SUNDAY 22.07 IN KITCHEN 0525 HOURS
Now, to put the photograph somewhere safe. He prodded at the skirting board that ran round the bottom of his bedroom walls. A length of wood came away, revealing a hollow in 21
HB Alexander
the wall – his hiding place. Inside was a small wooden box of treasures, including: – The Swiss Army penknife Granddad had given him. – A sky blue broken blackbird’s egg. – A photograph of Dad, tall and handsome, next to Mum, in his blue pilot uniform. It was taken years ago, before he was born. Charlie loved this photograph. Mum looked like a Bollywood film star in a scarlet red sari, her hair long, and black. He wedged the envelope and photograph in. Put the box back, inspected the skirting. No one would know there was a loose plank. His gazed at his Vip. It was so cool. 0934 hours. Time to phone Greg. 0939 hours. No time like the present. Back downstairs, Charlie heard Mum and Dad in the kitchen. He crept up to the closed door. What were they saying? ‘… it’ll be fine, we’ll have a better idea after Monday,’ murmured Dad. ‘OK, if you think so.’ ‘Stop worrying, let’s get dressed and enjoy the sun.’ Charlie backed away – retreating fast down the hall. Something was up. What was happening on Monday? Wednesday was the first day of the school holidays. He raced down to the woods at the bottom of the garden. Under the shade of the trees, he flipped the Vip out of watch mode. Beneath the clock face, a series of silver and white wheels spun and glittered. He found a stopwatch. Great, he and Greg could use that when they raced their model planes. An audio password activated the mobile phone. Dad had helped him set it up. ‘Spit2,’ he whispered, and the face of his Vip flushed a bright red. ‘Greg,’ he said clearly, putting his lips close to the screen. A swirl of pastel colours replaced the red. The voice recognition worked! ‘Hello,’ returned the Vip in a bright high-pitched voice, going purple and pulsating. Mad colours. It was as if the Vip guessed it was Greg’s crazy older sister. 22
‘Hello,’ repeated Annie. ‘Oh, hi there,’ said Charlie, ‘Is Greg about?’ ‘Is that you, Charlie?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Oh, you sound weird. Everything OK? Looking forward to the hols?’ ‘Er yeah, sure, is Greg home?’ ‘Greeeegggg,’ he heard Annie shout. ‘It’s Charlieeee.’ There was a pause and then Greg said, ‘Hi, Charlie! How’s you?’ ‘Great. Guess what my dad gave me for my birthday?’ ‘That new model Spitfire?’ ‘Yep, but what else?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. A spy movie?’ ‘No, well yes, but not that, something else.’ ‘Right, don’t know, give up.’ ‘I’ve got a Vip. It’s just as good as they say. It’s got masses of memory. It does everything a mobile can, and it’s the size of a watch.’ Charlie could hear his own voice getting shrill with excitement. ‘Great,’ said Greg unenthusiastically. ‘Really pleased for you, Charlie.’ Charlie remembered Greg didn’t even have a mobile phone yet. His parents thought he was too young. Whoops. He was such an idiot. He hadn’t meant to upset Greg. ‘Are you going to bring it into school tomorrow?’ asked Greg. ‘Nah! Mum won’t let me. Only two more days of school left though. And my Mum is going to take us to do that dry ski slope thing together in the hols, right?’ ‘Right, and when are you inviting me round to your new house?’ ‘It’s not new any more,’ said Charlie, pleased Greg wanted to come over. They’d moved a month ago to this large house buried in the countryside, miles from anyone and anything. ‘Well, I’ve never seen it.’ ‘No.’ That was because Greg was in the football team and never had time to visit. All the cool boys played football, taking up most of the playground. Charlie had tried to join in, but it was hopeless. His 23
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glasses either steamed up, or they’d fall off his nose. So he did Jujitsu instead. ‘The football season’s over,’ said Greg, as if reading his mind. ‘And the holidays are about to start. I’ll bring my new flyer; it’s a monster, top speed 120 miles per hour!’ Greg and he had plans. Greg was going to make planes and Charlie was going to be the pilot. Greg was a serious techno wizard; he already built engines, and his model planes could really fly. ‘I’ll ask my mum,’ said Charlie. Maybe Greg could help 001 with Operation SAM. ‘Great stuff.’ ‘See you at school tomorrow,’ Charlie grinned. ‘Over and out.’ Greg gave a snort, ‘Over and out, Charlie.’ The Vip lost its colour. Charlie couldn’t wait for the holidays to start. 1045 hours. Hard to pin down. Charlie sighed. It was hot. Heading indoors, he found Mum and Dad lazing around on the patio in deckchairs. This was great. He’d be able to use the office computer, secretly, to start the search for Sam. ‘Here Charles, do you want the cartoons?’ asked Dad, rustling the Sunday newspaper. ‘No thanks. I’m birdwatching,’ he said. ‘Oh! OK,’ said Dad disappearing behind the paper. ‘Good idea, Charles,’ said Mum absently, from under a widebrimmed sun-hat. She was putting cream on her already brown arms and legs. Charlie made his escape, thundering towards the woods at the bottom of the garden. Past the first row of bushes that cut the sloping lawn in two, he dropped to the ground. He saw Mum and Dad still in position, unconcerned, on their deckchairs. Good. Now to double-back. He took a deep breath. Lay flat. Glasses off. Into one hand. One, two, three … triple roll. 24
‘Ouch.’ He’d hit a paving slab. Glasses on. He set his sight on the path that ran straight, a perfect runway, to the kitchen door. Check. Left. Parents. Unmoved. Check. Right. CRACK. What was that? Something was moving on the other side of the hawthorn hedge that separated their garden from the next-door field. A bird? Too big. A cat? Maybe. He crept onto his feet. Moving silently, keeping his head low, he ran up the garden path towards the house. SScracchhh, Scruff. The ‘something’ behind the hedge was following him. Charlie stopped. Held his breath. It stopped too. He peered closely into the prickly hedge. His heart flipped and missed a beat. Two brown eyes – human eyes – stared at him through the tangle of twigs and leaves. He clapped a hand over his mouth. He blinked. The eyes were gone. His heart pounding, he muttered into the Vip, ‘001 reporting, check unidentified life-form in area.’ 1100 hours. A dead-end. It was cool in the office. Using Mum’s password, he logged on. 001 had discovered that secret a long time ago. ‘s-a-m’ he tapped into the internet search. Charlie scrolled down, page after page. Nothing useful after all. ‘Charles, what are you doing?’ Mum. Charlie nearly fell off the chair. Caught. This happened to 007 sometimes. ‘Oh! Hi Mum, just researching—’ he paused to think. ‘Saw a bird I couldn’t identify.’ 25
HB Alexander
‘Honestly, Charles. I thought you were birdwatching in the woods. No wonder you didn’t hear me calling you for lunch.’ 1400 hours. Blue. After lunch, Dad suggested a walk. Mum liked going on walks. It was one of the reasons they’d moved house – but she said no. ‘Charles and I will go without you,’ said Dad, to Charlie’s horror. Mum sniffed. ‘You do that.’ Had they quarrelled again? He glanced at his Vip. 1404 hours. He did hope the walk wasn’t going to be too long; after all, he’d a mission to complete. Charlie heard the engine first. A plane flying overhead. He stopped. British Airways maybe? Dad’s airline. A Boeing 747? Where was Dad? Striding on ahead. He hadn’t stopped to look. Normally, they would identify planes that flew over together. Dad didn’t seem to have even noticed the plane. In fact, he didn’t seem to be aware of him, either. Dad just kept walking fast up the hill, towards a solitary tree. Charlie chased after him, keeping his eyes on the uneven ground. He finally caught up with Dad at the top. Dad had stopped next to the old tree, and without turning he remarked, ‘What a view. Look at the colour of that sea.’ Charlie was too puffed to care about the view. He was about to ask Dad if he’d seen the plane when … ‘Hello,’ said a clear voice, right behind him. Charlie’s heart leapt, his feet briefly left the ground. He swung round. A girl – about his age – standing practically next to him. Where had she come from? He’d never seen her before. ‘Hello,’ replied Dad from behind. ‘My name’s Blue,’ the girl said. Her greasy brown hair was gathered in two untidy plaits. ‘Hello, Blue, pleased to meet you,’ said Dad. She smiled. Charlie could see she was instantly charmed. Dad did that to people. 26
‘This is Charles,’ said Dad, noticing Charlie’s silence. The girl turned her smile on him. ‘Hi, Charles.’ Her eyes … brown. He recognised those brown eyes. He’d seen them before, staring at him through the hedge just a few hours ago.
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Blondie Camps Blondie created her first picture book at the age of five, about a land of cucumber people. Her writing has got a bit more ballsy since then. Control is her first completed novel for young adults, dealing with strained relationships, eating disorders and suicide, all tied together with a supernatural bow. Her second novel, Gutterpups, is about a girl who falls in love with a homeless guy … Blondie lives in Cardiff, with philosopher husband Jimmy and goldfish Barney (named after Bernard Sumner from Joy Division). It was working as a Borders Children’s Book Specialist that made her realise reading and writing were things she could do as a career. She now writes in every spare minute, in-between working in a coffee shop during the day and ghost-hunting at night. Find her on Twitter and Facebook or email holler@blondiecamps.com
About Control Fifteen-year-old Dani is moving house. Again. Mum’s turned into this career-obsessed uber-cow, Dad’s always off with his band to some godforsaken-town-USA and the lust-inducing Jay is giving her so many mixed signals right now. Plus, super-weird things are happening in her new bedroom: noises from the closet, feeling as if she’s being watched, and someone keeps calling her name … Despite what everyone else thinks, Dani knows she’s not going mental. When new BFF, Nancy, suggests her room may be haunted, Dani’s desperate quest for the truth uncovers not one, but two stories that will affect her life more than she could ever imagine. Three lives. Decades apart. Linked by one room. And one issue. The fight for control.
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Control (extract) Chapter One ‘Careful knobjockey, can’t you see that box says FRAGILE?!’ Her beautiful insult punctures the moment of silence between the end of ‘London Calling’ and beginning of ‘Brand New Cadillac’. She thinks I can’t hear. But I definitely just heard her say knobjockey and so now I’m pressing pause. Even The Clash can’t compete with that. Sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree that grows in my new front garden, with Mum standing next to me, a can of Diet Coke in her hands, muttering in disgust, I look up from my MP3 player to watch her scrutinising the poor red-faced removal men as they struggle with the million and one boxes that contain all our worldly possessions. ‘Not there, you … you utter—’ She’s searching for the right insult. Wank-stain. Shithead. Fuckwit. Go on, I urge, trying to reach her telepathically. Say fuckwit. You know you want to. ‘—numpty.’ Even she looks disappointed in herself. I snigger quietly, but evidently not quietly enough. Mum turns so she’s in front of me, looking down at me, jutting out her hip, blocking out the sun. ‘Comfortable down there? Fancy a cushion?’ ‘How about a foot rub?’ I reply as I push my headphones down around my neck and my eyes meet hers. A challenge. She doesn’t answer so I raise my legs and wave my Converse at her. She just glares back. She has no sense of humour these days. Mum used to think I was funny, used to say if my career as a musician didn’t work out, I should be a stand-up comedian. But now there’s not even a flicker of a smile. Her forehead is all wrinkled up and she looks at me like I’m some kind of alien species. ‘That’s enough skiving for you.’ She crushes the can in her palm with a terrifying finality and starts walking towards our new wheelie bin. ‘There’s a few boxes of yours over by the car. You can take them up to your room.’ 31
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‘I just sat down Mum …’ Her head swivels round like something out of The Exorcist and the look on her face tells me arguing is futile. Sighing as loudly as I dare, I shove my MP3 player back into my pocket and push myself up off the grass. I hate moving house. Always have. Always will. I drag my feet as I make my way to the dark red saloon car Mum decided was more in keeping with her new lifestyle than our old silver Golf. To be honest, I preferred the Golf. Pausing by the car door, I watch her bark orders at the removal men. Her shoulder-length dark hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she looks slim and comfy in jeans and a stripy top. I wouldn’t say she looks happy, but what’s that phrase? In her element. That’s it. Knowing that if she catches me standing here for more than a millisecond there’ll be hell to pay, I bend down to pick up one of the boxes of my stuff, helpfully marked DANI CLOTHES. My hair falls in front of my face, but I don’t have a spare hand to brush it away. It tickles my nose and I can’t see a thing behind the mousy brown curtain. ‘You all right there, kid?’ As I struggle to lift the box off the floor, I flick my head back and my hair moves enough for me to see one of the overall-clad removal men heading towards me, effortlessly carrying a huge box marked OFFICE. ‘Mmm hmm,’ I manage as I attempt to stand up straight, trying to act like the box weighs nothing. ‘Your Mum’s a bit of a handful, eh?’ His eyes become wary almost as soon as he’s said it, like he’s worried I’m gonna be just like her and rip his head off and jump down his throat. I laugh and nod, letting the box drop back onto the gravel. It’s good to know I’m not the only one suffering today. ‘I’ll give you a hand with those in a minute,’ he says quietly as he moves past me. I can see Mum down by the road, talking to some guy leaning against a dark blue car. He’d be quite hot if he wasn’t old, like mid-30s, all stubble and long-ish hair. Even from here I can see a weird look on 32
his face as he stares at the house, like he’s scared it’s gonna slide down the hill and squish him or something. Who is he anyway? A neighbour? Trust Mum to start ingratiating herself before we’re even properly moved in. She’s fixed her death stare on me so I quickly haul the box up onto my hip, turning to follow the removal man into the house. But blue car guy’s got me thinking. Why’s he looking at our house like that? I mean, the house is totally weird, like someone took a bunch of ideas that looked good on other houses and shoved them all together. From one side, it looks like a regular house, like the others on this street. Edwardian. Then there’s a balcony, like something out of Romeo and Juliet. But my eyes are always drawn to the tower on the one side. It really is something else, with unusually large windows and red slated roof. Mum calls it eclectic. I call it schizo. As I manoeuvre my way through the open front door, the change in temperature is immediate. Outside it’s bright and warm, but then inside, it’s all dark and gloomy, like the sun has never reached this far. I shiver, goosebumps forming on my arms. The sweat that had begun to form on my forehead feels cold now. Footsteps sound on the path up to the front door. I pause to adjust the box. Who knew clothes were so bloody heavy? If it’s a removal man, maybe I can get him to carry this box upstairs. I dunno if I can make it without causing some major internal injury. ‘Dani, will you please stop loitering? Just do as I asked and take your stuff up to your room.’ I bite my tongue. Saying anything just makes Mum worse when she’s like this. I let her push past me on her way to the kitchen. ‘Why do I hire these total muppets?’ she grumbles, quite possibly loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Men are bloody useless.’ This is the reason we’ve worked our way through every removal company, every plumber, every decorator in the phonebook. I hoist the box further up onto my hip and tackle the stairs up to my room. It’s hard work, but I’m still freezing. I make my way down the hallway, towards the tower which houses my new bedroom. I kick the door open and dump my stuff on the floor. Standing in 33
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the doorway, my life in a box at my feet, I take it all in. It’s a big room, that’s why I chose it. Hexagonal in shape with a huge bay window, letting in the sunshine. Way bigger than my old box room in the flat. At the moment, it’s painted white with a cream carpet and cream curtains; so pure and clean and boring. I can’t wait to make it mine. I’m thinking there has to be pink, and yellow, and black … Posters on the walls of my favourite bands – the Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Buzzcocks, The Damned … My electric guitar on its stand over there in the corner … My books, my CDs, my desk under the window … With everything in its place, I’m sure it will start to feel like mine. But right now, it feels like a hotel room. No, it’s more than that, worse even. Every time I walk in here, I get the unsettling sensation of intruding on someone else’s privacy, like the feeling you get when you walk in on an argument. Unwelcome. I shove the box towards the dark wood framed bed that’s been left in the house. Mum says it’ll have to do until we get me a new one of my own. I’m doubtful I’m even gonna fit on it, let alone get a decent night’s sleep. And who knows who slept in here before, shedding tiny particles of skin, bodily fluids or even lice which now reside in the mattress on the bed I’m expected to sleep in. Someone could’ve died on it for all we know. I could catch scabies and it’d be all her fault. Not that she’d care. There’s a second door on the far side of the room. Mum says it’s a large cupboard space that can easily be turned into a walk-in wardrobe. As soon as we can get it open. There’s no handle, just a hole remains where the knob should be, and no one seems to know where the key is. It’s been painted over the same white as the walls, but the white is starting to peel away at the bottom, revealing red paint underneath. It almost looks like the paint has been scratched away. I shudder and try to push that thought away as I stride back across the room, eager to make a quick exit. I walk down the hallway, casting glances over my shoulder as 34
I go. I get the sense of someone stood in the doorway, watching me. This place is creeping me out. I stop to get my MP3 player out of my pocket, and someone slams into my side at full force. Mum. The box that was in her hands seems to hang in mid-air before it plummets to the ground with the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Shit. Now I’m for it. ‘Dani, what ARE you doing just standing in the hallway?’ Mum doesn’t wait for me to answer, shoving me out of the way so she can inspect the damage. ‘Oh great,’ she mutters. ‘Now I need to buy a new bathroom set as well.’ I stand, mutely, waiting for the abuse to be directed at me. Because of course this is my fault. Because I was stood still for two seconds, not because she was hurtling around without looking where she was going. ‘No. YOU can buy a new bathroom set. Go to that nice furnishing place in town.’ By nice, she means expensive. It’s a horrid place, all chintz and faux vintage, and it’ll cost me most of the money I was saving for the clip-in pink hair streaks. But hey, it’s worth it if it gets me away from her … I mean, here. ‘It’ll get you out from under my feet, you’re not exactly proving to be very useful,’ she adds with a sigh. ‘And don’t spend all afternoon mooning over that boyfriend of yours. I want you back at a reasonable hour.’ ‘His name is Jay and he’s not my—’ ‘Boyfriend. So you keep saying. Just be back around seven and I’ll order in some dinner.’ She’ll probably order Chinese again. I’m sick of Chinese, it’s rank. I fancy a curry. Or pizza. Anything but bloody Chinese. But I ain’t sticking around to argue. I peer through the window of Revolution Records. He’s exactly where I expect him to be, hunched over the counter, his nose in a book, his dark hair falling forward over his face. My breath catches in my throat. This happens every time. 35
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He’s so into what he’s reading, he doesn’t even notice me coming through the door and approaching the till. Which is good. Gives me time to compose myself. I casually reach over and flip the book upwards so I can see the front cover. He jumps so dramatically that the book flies from his hands, and I snatch it from the air. The picture on the front is of a bunch of depressed-looking guys in a tunnel. Jay grabs it back. ‘Oh it’s you.’ His lack of enthusiasm is like a punch in the guts. ‘Didn’t expect to see you today, thought you’d be busy with the house move.’ ‘Mum wanted me out of the way. What you reading?’ He waves the book at me. ‘Joy Division, Dani, Joy Division. There’s more to life than punk music, you know.’ ‘Doubtful.’ He grins and my mood instantly lifts. I hate that he has this effect on me. He checks his watch. ‘Wanna get coffee? I was gonna go to the ’Bucks. You can get one of those crappuccino things. I need some of the strong black stuff, preferably injected straight into the vein.’ Without waiting for my answer, Jay grabs a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and pulls on his black hoodie, then ushers me out of the shop. I love Revolution Records; being independent, it’s the only place you can get decent vinyl, rack after rack of the stuff and more displayed on the walls. Not that I have anything to play vinyl on. I came in to find something for Dad one time, and got distracted by the punk section. After about an hour, Jay asked if I needed any help. ‘How’s the new place then?’ he asks as we stand in the arcade while he fiddles with the lock on the door. ‘I dunno … Weird …’ ‘What do you mean weird?’ ‘Never mind.’ It sounds stupid now. We start walking down the arcade towards the main shopping street. ‘It’s just a weird house,’ he says, the voice of wisdom. ‘And it’s all new to you. You’ll settle in soon enough.’ 36
I nod, knowing he’s right. I change the subject. ‘How was band practice?’ Jay comes alive as he tells me about his rehearsal. Music is his passion, which is probably the only reason Manny hired him. It’s not like he’s great at the whole customer service thing, but he knows his stuff. When he talks about music, his eyes sparkle and his arms fly all over the place, air-drumming one second, demonstrating a guitar riff the next. His band, Car Crash Incidental formerly Death Wish, has a gig coming up and, as we cross the street to Starbucks, he’s telling me all about this new song and how there might be A&R men there and this could really be their big break. I try to listen, but I get distracted by the way his hair falls forward into his eyes and he has to push it back every minute or so. It’s just so … sexy.
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Sophie Cleverly-Edwards Sophie Cleverly-Edwards was born in Bath in 1989. She wrote her first story at the age of four, though it used no punctuation and was essentially one long sentence. Things have improved somewhat since then. She now lives with her partner and two degus in Wiltshire, where she has a house full of books and a garden full of crows. The books largely consist of fantasy, comic and historical novels, many of them for teenagers and young adults. You probably don’t want to know what the crows consist of. Ruby and Ivy is Sophie’s first novel, which she wrote after Ivy appeared in her head one day and demanded her story be told. scleverlyedwards@googlemail.com
About Ruby and Ivy Ivy Grey is one half of a whole. Her entire life has been spent in the shadow of her twin, Ruby. When Ruby dies in mysterious circumstances whilst away at boarding school, Ivy suspects foul play. It’s not long before she gets a visit from schoolmistress Miss Fox, who is hell-bent on maintaining Rookwood School’s reputation, and has hatched a plan to cover up the ‘unfortunate incident’. Ruby returns to Rookwood, but there’s something different about her – she is really Ivy. Ivy’s only hope is to find the hidden pages of her twin’s secret diary … before someone else gets there first. She needs to know the truth, but the question is – is she good enough at telling lies?
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Ruby and Ivy (extract) Chapter One This is the story of how I became my sister. I got the letter on July the twenty-fourth, 1935. I remember that because it was the day after our 16th birthday. My 16th birthday. The first one I wouldn’t share with my twin sister, Ruby. I woke up and made my way down the winding stairs of my Aunt Phoebe’s house, breathing in the smell of cooking bacon as I went. The early morning sun was already warming the air. It could have been a good day. As I reached the hallway, I noticed it. An envelope on the stone floor, addressed to me. For a moment I thought it could be a belated birthday card, but no, as I picked it up it felt like a letter. The only birthday card I’d got this year was from Aunt Phoebe, and looking at the single, lonely name written at the top had hurt more than I could say. I had never received a letter from anyone other than Ruby, and she always sealed her letters so haphazardly that you could probably have opened one just by breathing on it. This one, however, was closed tightly and sealed with wax. I went into the kitchen and placed the letter on the table. Then I got a butter knife from the dresser drawer and sat down on one of the rickety chairs. I took a closer look at the seal on the envelope: it was black, with a raised imprint of a bird on top of an oak tree. The words ‘Rookwood School’ were stamped underneath in dark-coloured ink. Rookwood School. Ruby’s school. What did they want with me? I slid the butter knife along the envelope. Dear Miss Grey, I am writing to inform you that – in light of recent unfortunate circumstances – a place has become available at our school. In September I will be sending a teacher to collect you. You shall attend a brief meeting with your parents to discuss the matter, and then be brought to the school. 41
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The details will be explained to you upon your arrival. Regards, Edgar Bartholomew (Headmaster) What on earth? I threw the letter down as if it had singed my fingers. What were they talking about? And how dare they refer to my sister’s death as ‘unfortunate circumstances’? I sat and stared at it for some time, questions racing through my head. For some reason, they wanted me. The twin who never passed the entrance exam. The twin who wasn’t good enough. Surely there were hundreds of other girls they could give the place to? Why did it have to be me? It was then that I noticed that the smell of cooking bacon had turned into the smell of burning bacon. I jumped up and ran to the stove, waving the smoke away from my face. I moved it off the flame, but it was too late; the bacon was already cremated. My Aunt Phoebe must have forgotten about it and wandered off somewhere. It was a common occurrence. I glanced out of the kitchen window and spotted her sitting on the bench in the garden, her hands folded neatly in her lap and a faraway expression on her face. I grabbed the letter, went over to the back door and lifted the latch. Aunt Phoebe didn’t look around as I walked over to her. I realised she was watching the goldfish in the pond. Little ripples curled as they bobbed to the surface and then darted away, their scales glinting in the sun. ‘Aunt Phoebe?’ ‘Oh, Ivy,’ she replied, blinking up at me and then returning her gaze to the water. ‘I didn’t see you there, dear.’ ‘I got a letter from—’ but before I could finish, Aunt Phoebe interrupted, seemingly unaware that I had spoken. ‘Ruby loved the fish, didn’t she? I remember when you were little, she used to kneel by the pond and make faces at her reflection. She always said that it was like another twin, only even more wet than you.’ I gave a weak smile. It was typical Ruby. She made fun of 42
everyone, and me the most, but I never thought anything of it. I went around the bench to sit beside my aunt. It wasn’t surprising that Aunt Phoebe’s thoughts were of Ruby. Ruby had always been everyone’s favourite. I was just Ivy. Shy, clingy Ivy. I might as well have been her shadow. ‘Oh goodness, I am sorry,’ Aunt Phoebe said, as if she could read my thoughts. ‘I didn’t mean to bring it up. I was just reminded of her.’ ‘I understand,’ I said. But I didn’t understand anything. I didn’t understand why Ruby had died. I didn’t understand how someone could die when they seemed so full to the brim with life. I didn’t understand why God, if he was up there, would give me a twin only to tear her away again. And now there was the mystery of this letter. ‘I got a letter,’ I repeated, waving it at her. Aunt Phoebe looked up. ‘Well? What did it say?’ ‘They want me to go to Rookwood. To take Ruby’s place.’ My aunt’s eyes widened considerably. ‘My goodness!’ She paused for a moment. ‘Do you want to?’ That hadn’t been the first thing on my mind. I thought about it. Ruby had died while she was there, barely a few months ago. A sudden fever, they said. Could have been the flu, or pneumonia. Something got to her that couldn’t have been predicted or prevented. My stepmother had given me these explanations as I sobbed, but she said it with heavy eyelids and tight lips, as if she didn’t quite believe it – or maybe she just didn’t care. But then I wasn’t sure if I believed it either. And if I didn’t believe it, that meant I had to find the truth. Perhaps there would be some clue at the school; some hint of why Ruby was taken from me. Not only that, but she had lived and breathed there, too. I would be closer to her. Or would I feel just as empty? I looked up at my aunt, her worried face framed by greying hazel curls. ‘I think … I have to. It seems they’ve decided for me, anyway.’ ‘How strange,’ she said. ‘Perhaps your father has already agreed to it?’ I sighed. It would be just like him to agree to such a thing without telling me. 43
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‘Well, it’s up to you, my dear,’ said Aunt Phoebe. I didn’t reply. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it then,’ she said, patting me on the leg. Then she wandered off down the garden path, past the privy and the vegetable patch, and began pulling weeds. She started to sing quietly to herself, already a world away. So, I was going to Rookwood. Maybe it would be a good thing, I tried to tell myself. A new start, new friends. And after all, Ruby always said that she wished I could join her there. Just thinking about it gave me a little jolt of pain in my chest. I felt the memory flow through me, and as hard as I tried, it wouldn’t stop coming. It was the day Ruby left for school … We were standing there on the lawn, younger versions of ourselves. Each with our matching suitcases. Father wanted to send us away. ‘Time to get an education,’ he said. ‘Time to become proper young ladies,’ he said. But I hadn’t passed the entrance exam. Ruby had, with flying colours. I had always been the clever one at the village school, working away quietly, while Ruby called out and told jokes. How could she have got in and not me? So they were sending Ruby to Rookwood, and me to stay with our Aunt Phoebe. Father waved goodbye to us with a glass of whisky in his hand. Our stepmother, wearing a pinafore and a grimace, dismissed us without even a second glance. She had sons to look after, and they were far more important than daughters that didn’t even belong to her. Maybe Aunt Phoebe was a better alternative to our parents, but she was strange and scatterbrained and I didn’t know her that well. You could never tell what she was thinking. I liked to know what people where thinking. There on the lawn, with the suitcases, I knew what Ruby was thinking. She wished that we were both going to the school, so she wouldn’t have to go alone. I knew she was thinking that, because I was thinking it too. I started to cry; big, gulping, childish sobs. Ruby took my hand. ‘Don’t worry, Ivy-Pie,’ she said. ‘I’ll write you a letter every week. And you’ll write me one back. And when I’ve finished school I’ll come and get you, and we’ll run away together and become beautiful actresses like Greta Garbo, or prima ballerinas, only we’ll be even 44
more famous because we’re twins. And we can go to America, and everyone in the whole world will want to be our friend.’ I cried even harder. Because it was ridiculous, and I would miss the ridiculous things that Ruby came out with. Not only that, but because we both knew that I could never become famous and loved by everyone. It could only be Ruby. I started to cry. I felt sick and stupid, and hastily wiped the tears from my cheeks. Who was I kidding? Did I really want to go to the place where Ruby had … died? I threw the stupid letter on the ground. Aunt Phoebe looked up, clutching a handful of dandelions. I put my head in my hands and heard her footsteps crunching back towards me over the gravel. ‘Oh Ruby,’ said Aunt Phoebe, looking over me with blank eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll be all right if you go off to this school. I’ll miss you, of course, but you will be fine on your own, won’t you?’ She called me Ruby. She didn’t even notice. I didn’t think I would ever be fine on my own.
Chapter Two It was a bright day in September, another day of awaiting my fate: the day I would have to go to Rookwood School. It was one of those days where it feels so hot and hazy that you can’t believe the summer is at an end. I was in the garden, lying flat on my back on the stone edge of the pond and reading a tattered copy of Jane Eyre. Sometimes I would look into the water just to see the green reflection staring back at me. It was almost enough to pretend Ruby was right there with me. Almost. ‘Ivy!’ My aunt’s voice rang out from the back door. I sat up so quickly I almost dropped the book in the pond. There was an unusual urgency in her voice. ‘Ivy!’ she called again, despite the fact that I was looking straight 45
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at her. She was wringing the ends of her apron in her pale hands. ‘Yes?’ I answered. ‘You’ve got a … visitor. It’s a teacher from the school.’ Damn! Then today was the day. I didn’t know if I was ready for this. I closed up the book and cautiously walked towards the cottage, curling my toes as I felt the stones under my feet. ‘Who is it?’ I whispered to Aunt Phoebe, taking in her worried expression. ‘A lady,’ she replied, before gently pushing me into the kitchen. The lady was tall and skinny, yet wore a long dress that looked several sizes too large. It was black, and covered with pockets. I looked up at her face. It was sharp and pointed, and her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun that only made things worse. It looked like she had a row of clothes pegs on the back of her head, pinching her skin tighter. At any rate, her face was not particularly pleasant to look at, especially given that she was fixing me with the expression of a person that has just chewed a rotten wasp. ‘Ivy Grey?’ she said. ‘Yes?’ I replied. ‘I trust that you have received our letter?’ I nodded carefully, and watched as she walked around the kitchen table. She ran a finger along it and scrutinised it in a most un-ladylike manner. ‘Good. Then you will accompany me to the school.’ ‘What?’ I blinked. ‘Right away?’ The woman lowered her eyebrows and folded her bony arms. ‘Yes, right away. It is the beginning of the term. Therefore, you are supposed to be in school.’ I turned around, and saw my aunt standing there, wide-eyed. ‘Aunt Phoebe?’ I said, giving her a pleading look. ‘Excuse us a moment,’ she said to the teacher, gently pulling me back into the kitchen. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘you did say you were going to go, didn’t you? I thought it was what you’ve always wanted.’ ‘Well, with Ruby … ’ I muttered. ‘I mean, yes, I did agree to it. But I didn’t know it would be like this. Out of the blue.’ 46
Truth be told, I was more worried about Aunt Phoebe than myself. ‘Who will look after you?’ I asked. My aunt smiled. ‘I’ll get along just fine.’ But what if she wasn’t able to manage? I wondered if she’d remember to clean the house, or to cook supper for herself, or even to breathe. Father had told me that her husband died in the Great War, and she had never been quite the same since. Wasn’t it my duty to take care of her? I peered back through the door at the alternative. The horrible sharp woman, tapping her foot and glaring at me with squinty eyes. ‘I haven’t got all day,’ she said. I wanted to stamp on her tapping foot. Ruby would have. Ruby. That’s who I was doing this for.
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Charlett Goretzka Charlett was born into a large family who were all named after motorbikes. She was raised around engines, rusted junk, leather and oil, running around like a really wild thing in the countryside. She believed that books fell from the sky and landed on bookshelves, for only gods must write them, until she found the degree in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University and the MA Writing for Young People. Charlett now teaches creative writing courses at Kilve Court for gifted and talented children. Rust is her second YA novel. cgoretzka@gmail.com
About Chalk Grace is taken from a circus when she is seven years old. Her kidnappers are part of a twisted and unjust drug chain; worming their way into power and manipulating people with drugs. The drug is stored inside a chalk stick and, once broken, it becomes airborne. It is blown into the face of another, and enables users to control their victims into doing anything against their will. This is how Grace is taken. Ten years later, Grace escapes from the drug chain with a new name, white eyes, scars all over her body and a mission to kill her family. But she can’t do it. She is now Moth. She is a fighter. She has lost the one she loved. And she will do anything to protect her family from the ones who killed her world.
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Chalk (extract) Circus ‘One hundred-three, one hundred-four, one hundred … five. One hundred-five pox spots,’ I say. Uuna doesn’t look amused. She’s lying on my bed with her arms crossed whilst I count the spots on her body. ‘It’s not fair!’ Uuna whines. ‘I want to go to the circus!’ I blow out the candle so we’re left in semi-darkness. ‘Well, Mother says you’re not to go anywhere until your temperature’s down and you’ve taken your medicine.’ ‘I don’t like the medicine, it tastes like horse wee. And I don’t care what Mother says, I want to go!’ Here come the tears. Her eyes well up and a snot bubble pops as her face goes redder and redder. ‘And how do you know what horse wee tastes like?’ She makes a noise that’s half-cry, half-laughter. Father shouts from downstairs. ‘Grace! Get down here. The circus won’t wait around for you.’ I smile at Uuna. ‘Look, I’ll bring you back a sugar bag, or a sticky apple. You like sticky apples.’ ‘I don’t like sticky apples,’ she pouts. ‘You eat them. I hope you get fat like a balloon.’ I sigh. There’s no other way round this, so I tickle her. She laughs and squeals and begs me to stop, and I tickle and tickle her some more, until she’s out of breath and my fingers are numb. I smile down at a breathless Uuna and kiss her forehead. ‘See you soon little sis.’ I fall down, squashing her, and roll off the bed. ‘Oomph.’ Brushing the creases from my green dress, I head for the door. ‘Grace?’ Uuna says quietly. I turn to her. ‘I do like sticky apples, really.’ ‘I know you do.’ ‘Grace?’ I peek my head back round the door. Uuna’s pulled the blanket up to her chin. ‘Happy Birthday.’ I smile and close the door behind me. 51
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On my way downstairs, I sneak into Tin’s room. I’m forever being told off by Mother for going in there whilst he’s sleeping, but I love seeing his little chest rise and fall and hear the small noise he makes with his lips. It’s dark in his room and small rays of light peek through the curtain, streaking the walls. A carving of a wooden horse turns slowly above his cot. I creep up to the side and look down at Tin’s tiny, sleeping face. Boo bear sits beside him, patched from years of being torn by me and Uuna. He still has one eye missing. Uuna swallowed the missing one. I take out Bernie the bear from my dress pocket and make him kiss Boo bear. Father made Bernie for my birthday, he needs to meet the family. As their stitch mouths touch, Boo bear tilts back. Beneath his foot lies a stick of chalk. I step back, my hand covering my mouth, stifling a cry. Swallowing the sick feeling rising up my throat, I count. Twelve, 13. That’s 14 sticks of chalk. Every day a new chalk stick arrives. I found the first one by my bedroom window, inside my room. The others have been scattered all around the house, even in the barn. And now here’s one in Tin’s cot, and it’s green. My dress is green. * ‘Father, I’m hungry!’ I pull at his sleeve. He’s sat at a table with four other men. They have white painted faces and they’re all pointing and whispering about which card he should pick. ‘Not now Grace, I’m playing cards.’ ‘But you never play cards! Please, oh please.’ Father turns on his stool and smiles at me. The sun’s glaring behind him and his face is shadowed. ‘Now you’re sounding like Uuna.’ He ruffles my hair and bops me on the nose. A man with a painted face gets Father’s attention. He’s holding some tickets out to him. ‘Here,’ Father says, taking the strip from the man. ‘Buy yourself some food, go play a game, anything. Come back after and we’ll do another sweep of the circus.’ 52
We had walked around the circus five times already, before Father disappeared. I ran around looking for him for ages until I found him at this table playing cards. I take the tickets from his large hand. Father hugs me and then turns his attention back to the table. And I walk away. Ashbrittle is alive with laughter and madness. Everywhere I turn, something’s happening: a flame juggler riding a unicycle, dancers shaking their hips at impossible speeds, and merchants calling out from inside their coloured tents: ‘Throw three balls to knock over the grapefruit and win …’ ‘Magic tricks, who wants to see a magic trick? Pick any card …’ ‘Girl! Yes, you there. Come and give this exciting game a try and win some magnificent prizes.’ The man who’s calling to me is in a grey tent peppered with mildew. His face is concealed in a white paste. It’s no surprise. All of the circus people are masked with something. I lean to look behind the man and see three straw dummies held together with frayed hessian sacks. ‘All you have to do is shoot four pellets in the head and you win, what say you have a go? I bet you’re a mean shot.’ ‘No thank you.’ I lift my chin and start to walk again. ‘Well, I knew I was wasting my time,’ he says, inspecting his nails. ‘Your arms are as thin as sparrow legs and you probably couldn’t pick up the pistols, let alone fire them. I guess I’ll have to wait for a boy to do it.’ ‘I can do anything a boy can!’ I say stubbornly. He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. Boys are much stronger than girls. You might want to try that game down the way there. I’m sure you’ll win yourself a rag doll. A silly rag doll for a silly little girl,’ he laughs. I pull up my sleeve and march back to the stall. ‘You’d better take that back! My father’s a sergeant in the army and he’ll punch you on the nose if you’re not careful!’ I knew Father was recovering from his injuries, but he’d definitely give this man a telling off for being so rude to me. He lifts his hands up. ‘Woah now, no need for threats. Here, prove me wrong.’ 53
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He puts two pistols on the table. ‘Only one ticket a round,’ he says, his eye twitching. I peel off a ticket from the strip Father had given me and hand it to him. He takes it, closes his hand and when he opens it again, the ticket has gone. I look at him warily as he steps out of the tent and stands beside me. ‘Go on then,’ he says, nodding to the weapons. The pistols look real and when I pick them up, they feel real. They have a mahogany handle with an engraved eye on the barrel. ‘Is this loaded?’ my voice squeaks. I clear my throat. ‘With pellets, yes.’ ‘And, what do I win?’ ‘Something better than a rag doll,’ he grins. I lift the pistols up and take aim at the middle dummy. My hands shake from the weight. The first two shots hit right in the centre of the head. The shooting is loud, but everyone around me is still laughing and running and playing. The third pellet hits the shoulder, the fourth the chest, and the fifth and sixth in the legs. I drop the pistols on the table, out of breath. The vibration from firing has left my hands numb. ‘And you’ve won a prize!’ ‘But, what? I only hit two in the head, not four.’ ‘Ah, that’s no matter, there’s still a second and third prize. Didn’t I say that? And,’ he leans in and whispers, ‘I heard it’s someone’s birthday.’ He puts his arm around my shoulder. I shrug his arm away. ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Your father told me, of course.’ He points to my father, who’s still playing cards. ‘He told me he has a big surprise waiting for you at home, something about a horse?’ I stop myself from letting out a squeal. I had been begging Father for months to let me choose a horse for my birthday. I’m only allowed to ride a stupid Shetland. ‘Let’s get that prize for you. Then you can tell your father that you want to go home. This prize won’t be as good as a horse, though.’ I’m so wrapped up in the thought of getting a horse I don’t realise 54
his arm is around me again and we’re walking across the village green. ‘What are you going to call him, I wonder?’ ‘Alford,’ I say. I’ve been thinking a lot about horse names. ‘Alford, what a great name.’ ‘It’s the name of the stallion owned by a great conqueror. He was once poor. Then, he stormed the country with thousands of men. His horse saw him through many battles and so he named the constellation in the night sky after his horse, Alford.’ ‘Is that so? And why didn’t he name a constellation after himself?’ ‘Because his horse was his soul and power,’ I say, proud to be reciting something Father had taught me. ‘My sister thinks I should call a horse Lily or Jasmine, but I like strong names. A strong name for a strong horse.’ We’re standing outside a wooden caravan with a white eye painted on the front and side. I look behind me and we’re far away from everyone else now, right at the edge of the circus. We’ve walked past other caravans which hide this one. ‘I think you should call your horse whatever you want. Alford’s a good name. So, would you like your surprise?’ He opens the door and a horrible smell comes from within. It smells wrong and it’s dark. I step back, but he still has me by the shoulders. He kneels down and squeezes my shoulder. ‘What’s wrong little girl? You don’t want your prize?’ ‘Get off, you’re hurting me!’ He reaches into my pocket and pulls out the green chalk I found in Tin’s cot. I stop fidgeting and look at it, stunned. ‘Chalk’s a funny thing,’ he smiles. ‘It makes the strongest man as weak as a child. Just like your father over there.’ He snaps the chalk stick and white powder pours into his palm. The outer chalk shell drops into the grass. ‘Night night, little girl.’ He takes a deep breath and blows the powder in my face. I breathe it in and choke and choke, and tear at my eyes. I can’t stop the tingling sensation all over my face. ‘Get in the caravan and don’t say a word.’ His voice is an echo. A black shadow creeps across my vision and I see the white-faced man as though through pinprick holes. 55
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‘Is my prize in there?’ I hear myself say. ‘Yes, go and claim your prize.’ I nod happily and walk into the dark.
Ten years later One The icy water wakes me from my hazy state. Three days without sleep has taken hold of my body and weighed me down. I feel flaky, withered. The pond is bitty, but I don’t care. I’m so thirsty I could drink a puddle of mud water if this wasn’t an option. Alford, my horse, drinks thirstily beside me. I give him an apologetic pat for depriving him of food and water for so long. The open landscape isn’t safe right now. I had to push him hard to get here. The drug chain could be anywhere. I arrived at the farm just as dark was closing in. I’ve been waiting for hours. Waiting for what, I don’t know. I stare at the thatched cottage, not quite believing that I’ve finally made it home. Home. My family are in there somewhere. They’re so close, I can almost feel them. Every time I take a step forward though, my stomach flips and I step back, concealing myself in the trees. What if they don’t live there anymore? What if they’ve moved on and forgotten about me? There’s a soft glow coming from the upstairs windows and one below, which I’m sure is the kitchen. The smell of cooking comes and goes and my stomach cramps with hunger. I haven’t seen anyone leave the farm, but I’ve seen shadows crossing the windows. Alford nudges my arm with his nose and makes a soft, throaty noise. I lean on his neck and sigh. I was taken, beaten and trained to become a fighter. The drug chain took everything from me, my childhood, even the one I loved. Then I was told to kill my family. Simple. Go home and kill them. But I can’t, won’t. It sickens me to think that if I’d never known Cen, the one I loved … I would’ve done this without hesitation. I can’t think about that now. The fact is, I did know Cen. 56
And he’s gone. ‘What am I doing here, Alford?’ I whisper. My voice is croaky, pained. ‘It’s been ten years. They won’t want me back now.’ I pull my long leather coat tightly around me and shiver from the cold breeze, letting the ebb of pain pulse through me, drag me under. This is what Cen wanted. Remember, escape and find home again. That’s what he told me to do. I’m home now. All I have left of him is a promise to fulfil. And this; a band with a smooth, white stone embedded in the centre. It has stayed on my wrist ever since Cen tied it there. We were never meant to love. Any of us. But we did. That’s why Bull, the head of the drug chain, had him whipped to death. I stroke the band on my wrist. If Cen were here now, he’d push me forward and tell me to go to them. I would tell him I have white eyes, and that I’d scare my family if they saw me now. He’d tell me I’m beautiful, as he always did, despite my scars and shaved hair, he would take the ugliness I felt every day and replace it with love. Now all I carry is emptiness.
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Alex Hart Alex Hart has been writing since he took one of those job calculator tests at 16, and it told him he would be an agricultural engineer. He didn’t know much about engines or agriculture, but he did know he liked writing. Since then, he has completed a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in Writing for Young People, both at Bath Spa University. He has also been awarded a Pitch Perfect award as part of the Bath Children’s Literature Festival 2012. He’s now 24 and lives with his partner in Lincolnshire, where he pretends he works as an audio typist, when actually he’s much more interested in writing the next chapter of that novel … alex_hart_87@hotmail.co.uk
About Life Force Anna Redwhistle has lived all her life in the Red Ring of Avalascia. She is about to leave on the skytrain for the first time to undertake The Choosing, with every other 12-year-old in Avalascia. It’s the only chance she has to change her life, for better, or worse. At least, that’s what she thinks. Meanwhile, Isaac, prince of Avalascia, has had enough. He doesn’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to go with all the others to The Choosing, but his parents have forbidden it. He’s going to run away. But he’s missed the skytrain, and it’s a long way to Trevadice. Anna and Isaac are about to experience just how cruel their world can be. If they can survive long enough, they might just discover what The Choosing really is.
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Life Force (extracts) From Chapter Two: The Skytrain Departs Anna sat up, dazed. The gentle hum of the skytrain’s engine reminded her where she was. The beds opposite were empty. She went to the window. The sun had almost set. The land was beginning to rise and fall like great green waves. Herds of wild alderbeasts dotted the hills. Ever-thickening forests stretched off into the distance. The skytrain was leaving behind the fertile plains of the south and entering the wild north. ‘That’s the sea over there, that is.’ Anna turned around in surprise. The boy she had curiously watched in the station was sitting on the bed above hers. He smiled at her. His legs dangled over the edge of the bed. ‘Didn’t want to wake you,’ he told her. His voice had a surprising amount of energy in it. Anna gave the boy a disapproving look. ‘What are you doing in here?’ ‘Watching out there, same as you. Quickly, you won’t be able to see it much longer.’ Curiosity got the better of her. She looked. At first she saw nothing. She squinted. A faint line on the horizon shimmered gold as it reflected the sun. Anna took in a sharp breath. She could remember that same shimmer as she toddled cautiously through the shallow sea. She felt the refreshing salt-water on her feet as her toes sank into the sand. ‘We’ll be turning off east in a second, then the hills will be in the way.’ Sure enough, only a moment later, the hills rose up again with no sign they would end. Anna had been holding her breath. ‘How did you get in here?’ she asked. The boy shrugged. ‘I walked in. The door wasn’t locked.’ ‘But why here? Don’t you have your own compartment?’ ‘I do, but I wanted to see the sea, and besides, the boys in my compartment are all playing Riddlers. I don’t like Riddlers.’ The boy clambered over the edge of the bed and jumped to the 61
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floor. He grinned. Anna put her hands on her hips and tried to copy Grace’s sternest tone: ‘What is your name?’ ‘Brian. Brian Bluestone. What about you?’ ‘My name is Anna. Look, you really shouldn’t be in here. This is a girls’ compartment.’ ‘I only see you. Where are the other girls?’ ‘I … I think they must still be in one of the Parlour Carriages.’ ‘Why aren’t you with them?’ Anna furrowed her brow. ‘Because I prefer to spend time alone. Now please go away.’ She turned away. She didn’t hear the sound of the door opening and closing as she hoped. ‘Is this yours?’ Brian was sitting on her bed, opening her suitcase. Anna marched over and pulled it out of his hands. ‘Yes it is! And you should ask before you touch someone else’s belongings.’ ‘May I have a look?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why haven’t you unpacked yet? I unpacked all of my things earlier.’ It was hard to believe, considering the huge suitcase that Brian had been dragging across the station floor. He gazed at Anna expectantly. ‘Is it because you fell asleep?’ His glasses were skewed, wrapped together with string in several places, and his blonde hair was cut unevenly all over his head. His face didn’t look as if it knew how to be unkind. Anna felt her anger disappearing. ‘Yes. I was tired.’ ‘If you want to go back to sleep, you can you know. I won’t mind.’ Brian had already started to climb up to the top bed again. Lea and the others would not be happy to find him there. They would definitely blame her. ‘Actually, I’d much rather sit down here.’ She sat on her own bed and he sat beside her. Anna wasn’t sure what to say. 62
Brian had no difficulty in carrying on the conversation. ‘Soon we’ll stop in Hakarigo, that’s the last big city before we reach the mountains. It’s not very nice there. It’s got lots of factories and things so it smells a bit. I’ve been much better places.’ He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a dirty handkerchief. ‘How do you know so much about the journey?’ Anna asked. ‘My mum used to take me places all the time when I was younger, and she used to tell me all their names and how near or far they were from everywhere else.’ He pushed his glasses back on to his nose and beamed. Anna frowned. ‘Wait a minute, you live in the Blue Ring.’ Brian’s eager smile fell. He placed his hands over his sleeves to hide the colour. He looked ashamed. ‘So what? You live in Red. That’s not that much better.’ ‘I only meant that it’s unusual for someone in the Blue Ring to be travelling anywhere as far as this. Other than for The Choosing, of course.’ Brian stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘When my dad was around we had a lot more money.’ He glanced back out of the window. The sun had now sunk below the ever-steepening range of hills. Brian was small and not exactly clean, but Anna understood him. ‘Your father left?’ she asked carefully. Brian shook his head. His expression was all too familiar. Anna had felt it whenever she thought of her own parents. She looked out at the world she still knew so little about. ‘Tell me … where else did you used to go with your mother?’ Brian’s smile reappeared. He reached into his pocket and produced a leatherhide book. It was a small atlas, the whole world of Alderion painted on the cover. The gold halls of the train were nothing compared to this. She reached out her hand in wonder. ‘May I?’ Brian nodded. ‘We can look together.’
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From Chapter Three: The View From the White Tower Isaac couldn’t sleep that night. The sun was already beginning to rise. The ringing bells and muffled voices of the city below usually soothed him. Tonight they sounded mocking. Ludo was out gliding in the twilight somewhere, as he did every night. Isaac got up, and went to the window. He liked the cool air on his face. No sign of Ludo. Isaac walked back to his bedside table, opened the drawer, and picked up a small paper packet. He returned to the window. ‘Ludo, if you come back now, I’ll give you 50 sugarnuts.’ He made little effort to lower his voice. His parents both took sleeping remedies and his sister’s room was five corridors away. No Ludo. Isaac sighed. ‘All right, I only have 20. But they’re very good.’ He popped one in his mouth. ‘See?’ Still no reply. Isaac reached for his telescope. At night the city seemed so much smaller, connected by constellations of light. He’d become so used to the view that it was almost a painting in his mind. Closest were the houses in the Magenta Ring, tall and proud, bathed in the light of a hundred streetlights. In the Green Ring the Cathedral of Isaiah shone like a golden beacon islanded in a sea of stars, which disappeared into the Orange Ring on the other side of the city. Far below, the Red Ring sloped downwards, the upper houses dotted with electric lights. Blue, and the small sliver of Yellow that Isaac could see from his window in daylight, were now almost completely black. Isaac liked to think he could see the faint flame of a candle, if he looked hard enough. It was a wonderful view. It would never be more than that while Isaac was trapped by the stone walls of the palace. Ludo was still nowhere to be seen. Just as he gave the skies one last glance, something caught Isaac’s eye below. He refocused his telescope lens. It had been bright, brighter than any window he’d ever seen. For a moment, only darkness. Then, just as he was about to give up, it swam back into the lens. Isaac pulled back. He froze. In the Blue Ring, a house was on fire. 64
The orange glow of the flames illuminated everything around them. A crowd had gathered to watch. No one seemed to be doing anything. Several people were pointing at a window on the first floor of the house. At first Isaac was confused; what were the crowd pointing at? Then he saw. It was a man, burning. Isaac’s skin prickled with horror. He couldn’t move. He imagined the man’s agonised face, twisting in the flames. The man jumped. He seemed to fall in slow motion, burning as brightly as the rest of the house. Part of the crowd backed away. Others rushed to help, but the guards held them back. The figure hit the ground and was still. Isaac blinked away tears. The man was surely dead by now. There had been time, time to help, or at least try. The guards finally gave way. Only one woman ran forwards. She collapsed next to the burning man, throwing a blanket over him. They were more than a hundred metres away. Through the telescope Isaac could feel the raw screams escaping from her throat. Men and women threw buckets of water at the raging flames. Slowly, very slowly, the fire died down. Only embers remained. Most of the crowd had left, but the woman still knelt in front of the house, motionless, as if she too had been consumed by the fire. The Royal Guards turned away anyone who tried to approach the woman. The guards had been there while the man was dying. They had seen what Isaac saw. They had watched, like a theatre audience, and had chosen not to save him. They’d acted like it was just another part of their job. Isaac turned away from the telescope and stumbled over to his bed. The covers swallowed him as he buried his face. He saw the man, burning and falling, again and again, slowly, slowly. He was desperate to tell his parents what he had seen. They could find out why the man had been left to die, and could make sure it didn’t happen again. But Isaac also knew that the Royal Guards were following orders. Those orders could only have come from the King and Queen. Memories came flooding back. His father teaching him how to smile and wave. To pardon and to condemn. When he was younger, Isaac had been told punishment was necessary to show wrongdoers the error of their ways. He had no reason not to believe it. But Isaac 65
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could not think of a crime horrible enough to deserve being burnt to death. He thought of Thomas and the cigar. That was where the cruelty began. This was where it ended. For the first time, Isaac truly wanted to be king. He could stop this suffering and make the guards fight for every life. But his sister would have the power. Not him. She would certainly not listen to him over the many advisors that would tell her what to do. Isaac sank into his pillow. He felt more trapped than ever before. There was a flapping sound. Ludo had returned. He was chewing the remains of a nightfly as he crouched on the bed. Isaac stroked his wings, grateful that he was not alone. Ludo cocked his head, as if trying to make sense of Isaac’s sad eyes. Ludo extended a small paw on to Isaac’s thumb. Isaac smiled despite his misery. A narrow ray of light shone through the window. Something was sparkling on Isaac’s desk. Curiosity pushed him to his feet. Amongst the papers on dinner etiquette, there was a compass. Isaac frowned. He couldn’t remember Professor Lilac giving him a compass. Isaac reached out his hand. Ludo jumped on to the table and snatched the compass in his paws, clutching it to his chest. Isaac raised his eyebrows. ‘And where did you find that?’ Ludo shook his head violently. ‘Let me have a look.’ Isaac put out his hand. Ludo didn’t move for a moment, but then shuffled forward. He pushed the compass towards Isaac with his paw, looking cross. Isaac grinned and threw Ludo a sugarnut. The creature munched happily. Isaac studied the compass in the pale morning light. It was old, and dented in places, but strangely warm in his palm. Isaac tried to unravel its black, worn string. He watched the small needle waver between north and north-east. It was pointing directly out of his window, towards the hills on the horizon, cloaked in the haze of morning. They suddenly seemed a lot nearer. Everything in his room felt far away. Isaac’s heart beat loud and fast. He paced around the room. Could he leave all this behind? It was his duty to stay. If something happened to Fiona then all of Avalascia would turn to him, and if he wasn’t there … 66
He stopped. His hands clutched the arm of his chair. His nails scraped the fabric. If he wasn’t there … then they would just have to find someone else. Isaac turned to Ludo who held out his paws expectantly. ‘Sorry Ludo, no more sugarnuts for now. There may not be many where we’re going.’ Ludo bared his teeth grumpily, but Isaac ignored him. He hurried to the wardrobe. Thoughts raced around his head, but he closed his eyes and tried to think straight. It would be easy to go a few floors down without being seen. But the palace guards often gathered in the courtyards. There was no way he could slip past. He wrapped himself in layers of warmer clothes, still trying to think of a way to escape. Small pieces of a plan were forming. It might just work. He sprang upright, collecting the other things he would need for the journey. The leatherhide satchel that had once belonged to his mother. The small dagger his father had given him for his 12th birthday. The compass. Minutes ago they had meant little to him. Now, they would help him survive. Ludo was beginning to fall asleep now that daybreak was upon them. ‘No time for sleeping now.’ He scooped Ludo up in his arms and placed him in the satchel. The outraged dragonmonkey hissed loudly. ‘Be good for once. Please?’ Ludo grunted and ducked his head into the satchel. Isaac looked around the room. He couldn’t spare another minute, not for this place. He opened the door and left without looking back. He walked down the stone corridor, half-hoping it was the last time he ever would.
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Lu Hersey Lu Hersey worked as an advertising copywriter until she escaped and became a freelance writer. She shares her house with a surfeit of young adults. They won’t leave home, and they keep calling her ‘Mum’. Surprisingly she finds their dialogue, strangely disturbing habits and erratic sleeping patterns a constant source of inspiration. She lives in Bristol, but her heart is in Cornwall. Deep Water is her first novel. luhersey@blueyonder.co.uk
About Deep Water Danni’s ordinary life changes the day Mum goes missing. For a start she has to live with Dad, miles away from home. She hasn’t stayed in this remote Cornish fishing village before, so how come complete strangers seem to recognise and fear her? Worse, she begins to develop strange symptoms. Water seeps out through her hands. Her dreams become nightmares. Danni finds out the village has a dark and disturbing past – and somehow she’s connected to it. She and her friends set out to discover the truth and rescue Mum. But the journey is far weirder and more dangerous than anything Danni could have imagined … Deep Water is a myth-based thriller aimed at young teens, filled with tension, romance, ancient magic, some humour and a lot of water. It fits a genre Elen Caldecott describes as ‘kitchen sink paranormal’. Deep Water won the Mslexia 2013 children’s novel writing competition.
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Deep Water (extract) Chapter One The rain drums on my head as I run. Freezing water drips off my hair and under my coat collar. As I reach my street, I see the house is still in darkness. Mum’s not home yet. All the other houses have lights on already. My fingers don’t work properly because they’re too cold. I fumble for my keys while Boris, next door’s cat, winds himself round my legs and purrs loudly. I open the front door carefully, but he’s too quick for me. He shoots down the hall and disappears into the dark at the back of the house. As I sling my rucksack down with a thump and flick the light on, I hear him hissing at something out in the kitchen. He bolts back down the hall, tail fluffed up like he’s being chased, and runs outside. Cats are weird. Most days it takes me ages to coax him back out again. I shiver and shut the front door quickly so he can’t change his mind. It must be warmer in the street than it is in here. Surely the heating should have come on by now? I head straight upstairs to the bathroom, turning the shower on full blast so it’s nice and hot by the time I’ve got my clothes off. The showers at the swimming pool are too small and cramped and there’s only ever a trickle of lukewarm water. I want to get rid of the smell of chlorine. I’m glad Mum’s not here. It gives me the opportunity to stay in for ages, basking in the heat. She hates me wasting hot water. Serves her right. I don’t like training after school every day, but she insists I keep going. The doorbell rings while I’m yanking my clothes back on. I run down to answer the door, a towel still wrapped round my head. ‘OK Danni?’ Levi pushes past me into the hall, breathing out a cloud of condensation. He folds his umbrella and sticks it behind the door. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here. Can’t you turn the heating on? Levi has the patience of a two-year-old. ‘I was just going to. Give us a chance!’ 71
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He grins at me and goes straight into the front room to switch on the TV. I’ve known Levi since primary school, so he acts like he lives here. He’s come round to watch an episode of a stupid kids’ soap with me. Today’s episode was filmed at our school last week. Levi’s convinced we’re going to be in the background shots somewhere. I think he secretly dreams of stardom. ‘Want something to eat?’ I don’t bother waiting for a reply. Levi never says no to food. Out in the kitchen, I unwind the towel from my head and shake my hair out. I shove the towel in the washing machine. The kitchen smells different. I can’t place it. A musty, damp smell. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising. Something’s not right in here and I try to figure out what it is. Everything’s tidy as usual. Then I notice a pool of water gleaming on the work surface near the central heating boiler. It’s as big as a dinner plate. I look up at the ceiling but can’t see where it’s come from. Hope the boiler’s not leaking. I don’t want to deal with it and Mum’s not back yet. I push the boiler switch to override and the heating blasts into life with a reassuring whoomph. Strange. The water must have come from somewhere. I stick my finger in it to make sure it is water. Levi shouts through from the front room. ‘Danni? It’s about to start. Hurry up. I need food to survive these arctic conditions.’ ‘The heating’s on now,’ I shout back. ‘Shut up moaning a minute.’ Without thinking I put the wet finger in my mouth. Bleugh, it’s salty. I spit it out in the sink immediately. That was stupid, it could be anything. Hope I haven’t poisoned myself. Does bleach taste salty? I pour a mug of water and swill my mouth out just in case. Then I find a packet of biscuits and head back to the front room. ‘When’s your mum back?’ Levi is stretched out on the sofa resting his trainers up on the arm. ‘Dunno. I thought she went in early today, but she must be on a late shift.’ I plonk myself down in the armchair next to him. The show starts. We catch glimpses of some kids in our year and at one point I think I see Levi going past the science lab window. 72
‘It’s not me, dumbass. It could be anyone.’ ‘Anyone your height, with cornrows exactly like yours.’ In the end I have to admit you can’t really tell from the top of someone’s head, but I still think it’s him. At six Levi has to go. ‘Better run, Mum’ll have my tea ready.’ ‘Lucky you. Looks like I’m cooking mine again.’ ‘I’ll come back afterwards if you’re still on your own. We can watch a film.’ ‘Great,’ I say. Truth is, Levi isn’t coming back just because he wants to see me. He’s got a young brother and baby sister and his terraced house is no bigger than mine. I think it’s quiet as a morgue round here, but he seems to like it. It’s still raining as he heads off into the dark. I close the door and call the supermarket where Mum works. I want to find out what time she’s back and if she’s bringing any food. If not, I’ll get a pizza out of the freezer. ‘Betterbuys Superstore, Hayley speaking. How can I help?’ ‘Hi, could I speak to Mrs Lancaster please?’ ‘Mrs Lancaster? Oh you mean Erin. Is that Danielle? ‘Danni. Yes it is.’ I try to remember which one Hayley is. They all look the same to me. ‘It’s her day off today, Danielle, remember?’ Obviously I don’t remember. Would I be phoning if I did? ‘Oh, right. Silly me. Thanks, Hayley. Bye!’ Mum didn’t tell me it was her day off, I’m sure of it. I call her mobile and hear her ringtone faintly. It’s coming from upstairs in her bedroom. Just for a second I imagine she might be unconscious, dead even, lying on the floor upstairs the whole time we were watching TV. It’s stupid but as I go upstairs, my heart’s beating really fast. Of course she’s not there. I spot her phone flashing on the wooden chair next to her bed. The chair seat’s covered in globs of 73
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water, like someone knocked a glass over or something. I’m amazed her phone’s still working. I pick it up and stare at the screen. It’s flashing the missed call from me. I wipe the water off on my jeans and put it back down on her bed. It feels empty up here, like something’s missing. Mum’s shoes are lined up on her shoe rack as usual and the stuff on her chest of drawers is all neatly arranged. I pick up her perfume and spray it towards the dressing table mirror. It smells of Mum getting dressed up to go out. The scent hangs in the still air and forms a slight mist on the glass. Crap. Now I wish I hadn’t sprayed it and try and rub it off with my sleeve. I stare at the reflection. My dark brown eyes look massive in this light and you can hardly see the whites. My hair has gone all straggly like straw. Probably should have blow-dried it after my shower. I pull it back into a ponytail to see if it looks any better, but can’t find a hair band. I let it fall back down. I’m hungry. Time to cook my pizza instead. Levi and I watch a horror movie about sharks. There’s no plot, but some of the special effects are gruesome. All the main characters get eaten, one by one. I really shouldn’t watch films like this. I spend too much time training in the sea during summer. At the end, Levi checks his watch. ‘Gotta go. Mum’ll be on my case.’ He grins. ‘I told her you were helping me with school work.’ ‘Levi, you’re such a liar. What if she finds out?’ ‘She won’t.’ ‘Are you walking to school tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘Yeah – do you want to take Cheryl to nursery with me on the way?’ Cheryl is Levi’s baby sister. We often take her to nursery because his mum starts work really early. ‘Maybe. Call me to check I’m awake.’ When I’ve seen Levi out, I decide to clear up the mess I made in the kitchen, so Mum doesn’t have a go at me later. She’s been really snappy recently. I wish she’d taken her phone with her. As I shove my plate in the dishwasher, I glance at the water on the work surface under the boiler. At least the pool hasn’t got bigger. 74
I try to remember if Mum said anything about going out tonight. I’m sure she didn’t. I really wish she’d call me. It’s not like her to stay out without letting me know. When I’ve finished in the kitchen, I head upstairs to bed. I read for a while, then glance at my alarm clock again. It’s 11. Mum never stays out this late without ringing to check I’m OK. I wonder if she’s got a date or something she didn’t want to talk about. She might at least have called. I lie back on my pillows and stare at the ceiling. It’s turquoise. When we painted it, I wanted the whole room this colour because it made me think of the sea, and I’d read in a magazine that turquoise was relaxing. Levi says it’s lurid. He doesn’t think much of my whale posters either. He says sleeping in here would give him nightmares about drowning. Maybe the posters are a bit childish. I stuck them up a few years ago now, so it’s probably time for a change. Tomorrow I’ll ask Mum if I can redecorate. I reach out and switch my bedside light off. Midnight. Still can’t sleep. I wonder if I should phone someone? Trouble is, I don’t know who. Mum doesn’t have that many friends and anyway, it’s late. I rack my brains trying to think of where she might have gone. I wish I’d paid more attention to her this morning, but it was so early. I’m sure she didn’t say anything about going out. I could call Dad, I suppose, but I can’t face it right now. I haven’t spoken to him for a while and he’ll ask loads of questions. Just thinking about it makes me feel tired. Mum’s bound to come back soon. I close my eyes and listen out for her return in the darkness. At some point, I drift off. Something is washed up by the waves, something big. It rolls over and over in the surf. Looks like a body. It can’t be … Mum. Bubbles pop around her half-open mouth. A tiny crab scuttles out.
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I must have screamed myself awake. My throat feels completely dry. It’s not even light yet. My heart’s thumping and my nightshirt’s damp with sweat. It’s the most realistic nightmare I’ve had for years. As I gradually calm down, I feel the silence ringing in my ears. I’m still the only one in the house. Something is wrong. Seriously wrong.
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David Hofmeyr David Hofmeyr has a vague theory on how to survive. Stumble through. Keep smiling. But that isn’t easy when you’re trying to be an author and holding down an advertising job. Then the Bath Spa MA arrives and he meets people with the same driving ambition – publication. In 2012, David enters the SCBWI Undiscovered Voices competition and, preposterously, wins with his co-written book, Kalahari. David is now looking for an alliance for his new manuscript, Stone Rider, and bigger things to follow. Winning means doing something worthwhile. Losing means drudgery. David Hofmeyr was born in South Africa and lives between London and Paris. dhofmeyr@hotmail.com
About Stone Rider When his brother is killed by a gang of Riders, 15-year-old Adam Stone is forced to enter a gruelling desert byke race. But these ain’t no ordinary bykes and this ain’t no ordinary race. Survival odds are low. Dead low. Adam forms an uneasy alliance with Kane, who rides like the wind and is lethal with a slingshot. Together with beautiful byke fixer, Sadie Blood, they battle other Riders, sulphur storms, sabotages, a feared ancient people, and a ravenous pack of wolves. The race will push Adam’s instinct for selfpreservation to the utmost limits. Stone Rider is the first book in a YA Science Fiction saga – a story of betrayal, redemption and survival.
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Stone Rider (extract) Chapter One Adam Stone empties the bucket of rotting vegetables into the trough, and then stands back to watch. Dried mud hangs in clots from the pig’s coarse hairless skin. It shovels its nose into the muck, squeals and looks up with a dumb expression. As though it’s surprised to be alive. Which it ought to be, given it’s the only one left. He watches the hog and he thinks about the Race. The annual Blackwater Trail. It’s about the only thing that occupies his thoughts. Each day. Every day. ‘What in hell ya doin in there? Ya black-out or sumthin?’ It’s the old man. Adam shakes his head and makes for the door. He bolts it fast and turns into the glare of a blazing sun. ‘Ya finish with the pig?’ comes the old man’s thin voice. Adam squints under the brim of his cap. ‘Yessir.’ Old Man Dagg. Oldest man in Blackwater. Seen more than 50 summers. He stands in the sparse shade of a charred cedar tree, leaning on his stick. He’s wearing a grey-white vest with yellow sweat stains and a pair of ancient jeans blackened with dirt. Same thing he always wears. His face is hidden in the shade of a battered wide-brim hat. He leans to the side and spits. ‘Goddamn hot,’ he says and limps into the house. No kiddin. Old Man Dagg always says the obvious. Always about the weather. It’s hot. Looks like rain. Gonna be freezin come winter. ‘Ya need me fer sumthin else, Mr Dagg, sir?’ He follows the old man, steps up onto the cool porch. The stone floor is worn smooth and flakes of grey paint peel from the walls. Adam moves to the door and looks into gloom. Hears nothing but the squeak of a mosquito door on busted springs. ‘Mr Dagg?’ He steps over the threshold and is hit with a strong reek. Stale 81
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sweat and boiled vegetables – cabbages and turnips, something else he can’t place. He shifts his weight and the floorboards creak underfoot. Then he hears the tapping of a stick. Emerging from the shadows, the old man comes with his pale, sightless eyes. His face is drawn and grey and the bags under his eyes are dark, almost green. His O2 Mask dangles loose at his neck. Old Man Dagg draws the back of his hand across his mouth and clears his throat. The rattling sound doesn’t bode well. If only he’d keel over – do everone a favour. ‘Ya bleedin me dry, boy.’ He peels out a yellowed note from an open billfold. His Devil-Juice breath could peel paint. ‘Hell. Spoze ya think it’s fine stealin from an ole man?’ ‘No sir.’ The old man sneers. Then he turns his head to the side, the way a dog listens to distant sounds. And he doesn’t move. Now Adam hears the muted roar. He looks to the horizon and he sees a straight, white arrow jetstream and the tiny, metal glint of a Solar Rocket. ‘Ya fixin to ride the Race?’ the old man says. ‘Yessir,’ Adam answers, watching the distant Rocket climb into a blue-black sky. ‘Yessir, no sir, three bags full sir. Don’t ya never say nuthin else?’ Adam looks at him. ‘No sir.’ Old Man Dagg’s eyes are rheumy and red-rimmed. Adam wonders if he can see anything. Shadows maybe. Shapes. ‘Ya ain’t fraid a them hoodlums?’ the old man says. ‘I can keep clear.’ The old man snorts. ‘Think ya got the mettle?’ His mouth twists into a snarl. ‘Think ya know how to win? That ya some kinda special case?’ Ya bet I know, ole man. I aim to git myself a ticket on that Rocket. Blast good an far outta Blackwater. Never look back. Not ever. The old man massages his neck and pulls it to the side. Adam hears the bones click. ‘Don’t like it here much, do ya?’ the old man says. ‘Here with the 82
Left-Behind.’ ‘I like it fine,’ Adam lies. ‘Ya don’t know nuthin. Nuthin bout afore.’ Adam shrugs. ‘I know things was different.’ The old man nods his head, but not in agreement. ‘Things was more’n different. How many summers ya’ll got … 14?’ ‘15.’ ‘Hell. Had myself a full head a hair when I was a boy. Goddamn toxic sky. My grandpappy, Enoch, lived to a full 70 summers, if ya’d believe it.’ Old Man Dagg shuffles past Adam and lifts his face to the sky. He arches his neck, twitches, and sniffs the air. Then he turns his head to the side and spits. ‘Rain comin.’ In his hand the yellowed note flutters between the stubs of his dirt-stained fingers. It’s the last note Adam needs to enter the Race. The note that will fly him away. Adam grabs it with shaking hands, stuffs it into his back pocket. Then he looks up. The old man must be addled with the booze, because he can’t see a hint of rain. Not a wisp of cloud. Just a chalk-smudge line of white jetstream, a reminder of the Rocket’s upward thrust. Old Man Dagg pulls up his O2 Mask and sucks a ragged breath. Then he lowers it. ‘Think there’s sumthin better out there, do ya?’ Frank always says ya gotta keep tryin. Never give up. Not ever. ‘Ain’t nuthin but a fool don’t know when to quit,’ Old Man Dagg says, as though reading his thoughts. Then he tilts his face to the sky again. ‘What’s comin is comin. Not a damn thing in the world ya can do bout that.’ While the old man prattles on about plagues and thunder, Adam mounts his byke, claps on his goggles and rolls back the throttle, loving the vibration in his hands and the thrum of the engine. He leaves the old man standing in his up-flung dust. Everything is different on his byke. It’s the only place he feels free. The hot westerly cuts into his face and the sun burns his neck. All 83
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thoughts of crazy Old Man Dagg drift away. The money sits in the sole of his boot and he feels a wild excitement build. He takes the lake towpath. Past the deserted woodcutter’s lodge, down through the burnt-out cedar tree forest to the old jetty. The way he always goes on hot days like this when the air is choked with dust and everything moves in slow motion. Everything but the byke. The byke is a thing of beauty, a transforming wonder-machine. It elongates on the flat, reducing air-resistance for speed. On the jumps, with a slick gearshift, it cinches up, providing maximum control. The byke borrows its power from the elements – the wind and the sun – trapping and storing energy through multiple air ducts and ingeniously integrated solar panels, concentrators and mirrors. But every byke needs a Rider. Bykes respond to Riders, move with them, feed off the Rider’s energy and movements. A byke, like a living thing, a bio-mech thing, knows its Rider, works in synch with the Rider, unleashing pure elemental force through the exhaust. Adam rides with a keen sense of instinct. A sixth sense. He could ride blind he knows the byke so well. The gears click and take and he feels resistance in the shocks as he powers up a hill. The sky is cobalt blue and vast and the landscape bleak. The bony limbs of trees point the way and he follows in a trance. This is how riding makes him feel. Light and loose. Alive! He’s in The Zone. A different dimension. That place he goes when he rides. The road is a tunnel and he goes and goes, without consciousness. He’s free. Free of this dead place. The cracked white cement comes at him and his tyres grip. Now he plunges onto a gravel path. He carves through a rutted track he knows by heart. Every stone. Every turn. He comes sweeping full-tilt up the trail, pulling wheelies and charging stumps. He swerves at the last second. Rubber burns as he brakes. Then he belts it round a bend, exploding out of the turn, towards the jetty. One false move and he’s in the scrub. But that ain’t gonna happen. 84
Coz I’m the best damn Rider on the planet. No one can beat me. He flings his Supply Pack aside, strips to his underwear, runs barefoot down the loose jetty planks, gulps a breath, and leaps feet-first into the water. Cold grips him. He pinches his nose to equalise, then kicks and pulls. Down he goes. Down deep where it’s cold and dark and green weeds drift. He floats, hanging limp, arms out-flung. No one can hurt him here. He’d sink to the bottom, if he could. Right down to the sandy lakebed. He can just see it, far out of reach, shimmering like a seam of silver in a black rock. Frank taught him how to swim. Taught him the mean way. Swung him round by an arm and a leg. Adam screamed but his brother held him … Then let go. Adam remembers the feeling. The frantic panic in his chest. The water in his mouth, in his nose. Thrashing his arms and his legs. Somehow, he made it back to the bank and his brother stood over him, watching him suck air. Adam didn’t speak to him for months after that. He waits now until the burning in his lungs is fierce and he knows he is close to blacking out. Then he rises with a couple of steady kicks, exhaling Coke-coloured bubbles as he goes. Adam bursts out the water with a showering spray and a gasp. He throws up his arms, shouts at the hot blue sky, at the white sun with its rainbow halo in the blurry light. Then he sees him. At first, he is just a vague outline. A shadow. Then a kid. Sitting on his haunches. Looking at his byke. ‘This yer byke, friend?’ the kid says in a flat tone. Peak down, eyes in shadow. Adam blinks and wipes the water from his eyes. He looks up the trail, through the skeleton trees. Then glances at his boot, where he’s hid the money. ‘Who’s askin?’ 85
The kid shifts on the balls of his feet and looks up at Adam. ‘Ain’t nobody else here.’ Adam makes him out to be about the same age as him. Maybe a summer or two older. Dark-skinned. Crazy wolf-yellow eyes, quick and calculating. Adam feels his jaw tighten. A twinge of panic in his stomach. ‘It’s a nice byke,’ the kid says. ‘I know. It’s mine.’ Stupid. I shoulda gone straight to enter. Damn it. Adam treads water, playing it cool. ‘Who are ya?’ ‘Name’s Kane,’ he says, rising off his haunches. Adam looks him up and down. He’s tall. Maybe five-ten. And well-built with broad shoulders. His face is handsome, angular. A perfect face … if not for the ugly scar that runs up his cheek, from his lip almost to his eye. Adam wonders what brought on this terrible memento and what the kid might have looked like before. Kane keeps his peak low but his eyes gleam under the brim. His eyes are impossible to read. These are eyes that miss nothing and hide everything. ‘Jest Kane?’ Adam asks. ‘Nuthin else?’ ‘Nuthin else.’ ‘Ya from Monument?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Freetown?’ ‘Hell no. Not that place neither.’ Adam hesitates. He’s running out of towns. ‘Watcha doin here?’ Kane drags off his shirt. ‘Come to swim.’ Adam sees him pull off his boots, one by one. ‘This is where I swim,’ he says. Kane dumps his clothes in a heap, flings down his cap. ‘It’s a free world, ain’t it?’ He stands buck-naked on the jetty edge. Adam watches him. Who does he think he is? His body is lean and toned and his skin is darkly tanned, almost red. His head – like every other person Adam has ever known – is utterly bald. Not one hair adorns his body. But this is normal. What 86
sets him apart are his amber-coloured eyes … and the scars. He’s covered in wounds and welts. A mean-looking suture, long healed, runs under his shoulder. Another traverses the left side of his abdomen, above the ribs. But he’s clean of signs. No crude tattoos. He’s a loner. Just like him. Kane glares down at the glittering water and there’s something in his look that makes Adam feel a spurt of fear. The way he scowls at the placid lake as though its dark water has done him some injustice and he has come to exact revenge. ‘How far down does it go?’ he says. Adam watches him. ‘To the bottom I guess.’ Kane smiles. ‘How deep?’ ‘Deep enough.’ Kane stares at the water. His face – with his yellow-coloured eyes, his high cheekbones and his straight jaw – has an alarming, fearsome beauty. Despite the scar. Maybe because of it. ‘Dive down and see,’ Adam says. ‘I dare ya.’ Kane turns and walks back down the jetty. His back is crisscrossed with scars. Adam spits water and laughs. ‘Whatsamatter? Chicken, or sumthin?’ But it’s a forced laugh. He paddles at the surface, feeling the panic rise. He is taking risks, but he has to. He has to show he isn’t scared. Take it easy, Adam. Don’t lose it. Then the jetty rumbles and the planks rattle. Kane comes slamming down at a hard run. He leaps off the edge; dives right over Adam – a flash of dark flesh – then a sucking sound, not even a splash, and the black water swamps him. Adam spins round. He’s gone. He gulps a breath and ducks underwater. He searches through the roiled sediment, but he can’t see a thing. He surfaces, climbs the jetty stairs, streaming water. Stands on the edge, hands at his crotch, shivering. The water churns and ripples, then slowly turns flat calm. Nothing moves.
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Kris Humphrey Kris grew up in Plymouth, where he spent most of his time reading books, riding around on his bike and daydreaming about writing a book himself one day. Since then, Kris has had more jobs than he cares to think about. He has been a cinema projectionist, a bookseller and a blood factory technician. He has worked in a record store in Vancouver and at an animal sanctuary in the Guatemalan jungle (in which he had the weirdly enjoyable job of sweeping up monkey poo). Somewhere along the way Kris started to write stories and found that inventing characters and worlds and hammering his vague ideas into shape was actually a lot of fun. He has been totally addicted to the process ever since. kris.d.humphrey@gmail.com
About Gateway Ryan’s seizures are changing. Instead of blackouts he’s getting dreams now; icy dreams so real that he wakes up shivering. But the dreams aren’t his only problem. When his dog, Napoleon, vanishes, Ryan discovers that someone is stealing animals and using them as fuel for a sinister machine. In his quest to save Napoleon, Ryan meets Grace, a girl with painful experience of the animal thieves. They are travellers from the future, she says, hell-bent on tearing a hole through Spacetime, a Gateway that will unleash an unstoppable invading army. Ryan learns that his seizures are catapulting him forwards through Time, into the world of the invaders. He must travel alone into that ice-bound future, because now only he can stop the Gateway from opening.
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Gateway (extract) Chapter One Ryan’s trainers slapped against the pavement. He held tight to Napoleon’s lead as his dog dragged him downhill towards Belmont Park. The midday sun made Ryan’s eyes ache. He’d only crawled out of bed half an hour ago and he was already feeling exhausted. It had been a bad night. Another seizure. Another one of his crazy dreams. He forced all thoughts of last night to the back of his mind and let the sunshine settle on his skin. This was how summer was meant to be: kids’ voices shooting into the sky, Napoleon’s paws drumming on the pavement. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Trevor: Running late. Half an hour ok? T He was probably still in bed. Trevor was the only person alive who slept later than Ryan did. Ryan held his phone up and started tapping on the screen with both thumbs, letting Trevor know how lazy he was. Then, at that exact moment, Napoleon decided to lunge forwards and drag the lead right out of Ryan’s hand. Ryan jerked his arm out, but Napoleon was away, running like a dog possessed. ‘Napoleon, stop!’ Ryan stuffed his phone into his pocket and ran. A car roared up the hill and Ryan braced himself for the screech of brakes and the thump. His chest froze over with panic, but Napoleon stayed on the pavement, charging hell-bent for the bottom of the street and the trees of Belmont Park. His legs shuddered with dull pain, drained of all energy after last night. Napoleon was losing him, so he tried to run faster, but he knew he was just asking for another seizure. He was getting light-headed already. He craned his neck to see over the parked cars. No sign of Napoleon, but he could hear the lead scraping across paving slabs, flicking against lampposts. 91
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‘Napoleon!’ he shouted again. The road straightened out and he caught sight of him, flying between the gateposts of the park. Ryan jogged up to the gates and stopped. His windpipe stung as he sucked in air. He leaned against one of the pillars and stared out into the park. White spots danced across his vision. Napoleon was halfway across the grass already. But he was safe; it was just the park; it didn’t matter anymore. Then Ryan saw where Napoleon was heading and his heart sank. He pushed off into a lumbering run. The gradient pulled him down onto the playing field. His trainers smacked hard against the ground and pain stabbed all the way up through his body. He ran straight through the middle of someone’s football match, ignoring the angry shouts. His head was dizzy and exhausted. Napoleon was almost in the far corner already, where the boundary wall got all crumbly and crooked and instead of houses behind it there was the huge, dark tangle of waste ground. The woods. ‘Napoleon!’ he wheezed. But Napoleon didn’t even turn. Ryan stared through drips of sweat. The wall had bricks missing at the bottom, a hole just big enough for a terrier like Napoleon. His dog paused at the hole, tilting his head for a second as if deciding what to do. Then he was gone. Vanished into the woods. Ryan reached the wall, gasping and sweaty, feeling like everyone in the park was looking at him, laughing at how slow and stupid he was. He stared over the wall at the litter-strewn brambles and the trees. He’d never been in there. It was a wasteland, a place for tramps and weirdos. The sounds of the park buzzed in his ears. Kids shouting, the creak of swings. There was music too, a sort of lilting carnival tune that was coming from the woods. But it couldn’t be coming from the woods. There was nothing in there. Ryan shouted Napoleon’s name into the trees. All he wanted was to wait there in the sunshine until his dog came back out on his own. But he couldn’t do that. He’d promised his parents he’d look after 92
Napoleon. They’d never trust him with anything again if he lost him. He stood up straight. The woods hulked in front of him. The music throbbed somewhere off through the trees. Tramps and weirdos. What was the worst that could happen? Ryan dragged his aching limbs up onto the wall. Bits of brick flaked off under his hands as he slid over the top and dropped into waist-high brambles. They clung to him as he tried to move. He stamped them down and plucked the barbs out of his clothes and skin as he went. By the time he got through the first thicket he was streaked with scratches. The air was cool and clammy and stale smelling. Ryan’s neck hairs bristled. It was like he’d left summer behind at the wall. He wanted to shout out for Napoleon, but the quiet of the woods held him back. He couldn’t hear anything from the park anymore. The vegetation seemed to absorb noise like a sponge. All he could hear was the music, drifting between the trees. The tune was strange but familiar, reedy and multi-layered like an organ. But who was making it? There was a strip of long grass that wove between the trees. Ryan waded through, twitching at every creak of a branch. He followed the music. Up ahead he glimpsed a patch of dull red brick. A house. The woods were meant to be empty, deserted, just wasteland between the park and some old industrial estate. A sudden urge to run hit him. What if someone was living here? He felt for his phone in his pocket. Maybe he should call Trevor. He could wait back in the park and they could do a proper search together. But even as he thought it the shame hit. Napoleon. He made himself say it: ‘Napoleon’. No more than a whisper. Then he heard a bark come echoing through the trees. He ran towards the sound, kicking grass and weeds aside. His lungs were still tight from before and he was panting again. Up ahead, a patch of brambles swayed as something scurried through it. ‘Napoleon!’ 93
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A flash of black fur. Ryan’s head started to swim with dizziness, but he kept on running. Walls and windows took form between the trees and another jolt of fear shot through him. Just an empty old house. Nothing to be afraid of. But empty houses didn’t make music. Ryan crashed through a wall of grass and his trainers hit concrete. A yard opened out around him and the shock of what he saw there stopped him dead. Bones, meat and animal waste lay everywhere. Dark-stained plastic bags rustled in the breeze. Ryan gagged as a rotting smell attacked his throat. He crouched against a tree, swallowing hard to keep his stomach down. Where the hell was he? The yard curved to the left, towards the side wall of the house. The whole place was enclosed by a high brick wall. He pulled his T-shirt up to cover his nose and slowly rose to his feet. There was no sign of Napoleon anywhere. He stumbled along the edge of the yard, the stink getting stronger. Clouds of flies hovered over ragged hunks of meat. He couldn’t help but stare. One looked like a squirrel, another had feathers tufting out like it used to be a pigeon. Boot prints and tyre marks ran haphazard over everything, mashing the meat into streaks and puddles. It made him think of road kill. Like someone had gone around town with a shovel collecting the stuff. It was sick. Ryan felt sick. He saw a run of kennels up against the boundary wall, chained shut and rusty. Nothing moved inside them. The music was loud now and there was a weird static in the air too. Like a TV left on but way more powerful. Three storeys of soot-stained brick rose up to greet him. Windows without curtains, glaring blankly like the empty sockets of a skull. The roof was clustered with chimney pots and there was a small, enclosed porch protruding into the yard. Three steps led up to an open door. Ryan looked closer at the steps and saw fur and animal guts lying thick all around the entrance. The wall of the house was streaked red as if the dead things had been chucked out of the door into the yard. He blinked to try and clear his head. 94
Did he really want to find out who lived here? The static fizzed inside his head and the music churned, round and round, laying a weird haze over his thoughts. He wanted to run, but he didn’t know if he could. He breathed deeply into his T-shirt. The smell of dead meat still reeked in his nostrils, but he had to breathe. He couldn’t risk a seizure, not here. The music spilled from the house, wandering through his head and making it hard to think. He didn’t know why, but he took a step towards the house. He felt dizzy, a different kind of dizzy from when a seizure was coming. Then two barks rang out and his mind flicked back into focus. Napoleon. He set out in a zigzag through the junk and the crap and the dead things, out towards the porch and the open door. He tried not to look at any of it, but a plastic bag flapped and caught his heel. He kicked it away and stumbled, treading through a weird brownish puddle that oozed up the sides of his trainers. He didn’t want to know what it was, just tried to shut his senses down and hurry to the porch. But when he got there he saw the steps draped with butchered animals. Their glassy dead eyes were so horrible and sad and the smell of guts was so strong that his stomach flipped. He doubled over and retched onto the concrete, clutching his stomach and spitting until the acid taste was diluted in his mouth. This was insane. No one would choose to live like this, would they? There was no sound except the fairground melody. It burrowed deep into his brain like a worm, getting louder, the static getting stronger too. It was hypnotic. Every time his concentration slipped he felt a drowsiness come over him. A desire to enter the house, as if the music wanted him there, as if it was dragging him inside. He straightened up and wiped his watery eyes and his mouth. The door to the porch hung fully open. It was dark inside, but he could make out bare floorboards, more animal skins, a shelf crammed with jars and rags and rusted aerosol cans. He couldn’t bring himself to enter, even though he knew Napoleon was in there. He felt even weaker now that he’d thrown up, and his head was heavy from the constant churning music. 95
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But he had to do it. He had to go in. There was no space for his feet on the bottom step. He stared down at a dead squirrel and made himself nudge it sideways with the tip of his trainer. It fell off the step, flopped and opened out where it had been cut or squashed or eaten. Ryan wanted to puke again, but he looked away, and he took the first step up. ‘Napoleon,’ he hissed at the open door. ‘Come on.’ The music stopped. The static stopped too, sucked away as if it had been vacuumed straight out of his head. Silence. He stayed dead still, halfway onto the bottom step. His heart beat painfully loud. ‘Napoleon,’ he whispered. Somewhere in the dark he heard paws scrape on wood. The sound got closer. He leaned forwards, listening. Come on, boy. He waited, breathless, for his Napoleon to trot into view. But there was another sound too, a sound that made his heart skip. The clank and scrape of a dragging chain. He backed away from the steps as a fierce low growl rumbled from inside and a huge Alsatian dog stepped out into the porch. Ryan stumbled backwards, his trainers sliding on the gore. The Alsatian followed. It was the biggest dog he’d ever seen. Its fur was thick and matted, with patches missing. Its bare skin was covered in scabs. A metre of steel chain hung from around its neck, rattling down the steps and trailing unattached between its legs. Ryan backed towards the trees. He wanted to run, right now, as fast as he could. But he knew that if he did it would chase him and he wouldn’t stand a chance. He bent down and grabbed a broken bit of pipe, gripping it two-handed like a baseball bat. ‘Napoleon!’ he shouted, and the word bounced eerily around the yard. The Alsatian barked loud and ferocious in return. Ryan took another step back and felt the tall grass brush against his jeans. He took one last pleading look at the Alsatian. 96
Then he turned and bolted into the grass. In seconds the dog was at his heels and Ryan spun with his weapon outstretched, scything through the grass with a snarl of his own. The Alsatian leaped and snapped just out of reach and Ryan sprinted on, just a fraction ahead of the following jaws. His chest was getting tight already and as he dodged through the trees he felt panic boil through him like a fever. It was too far back to the park. He wasn’t going to make it. The Alsatian crashed noisily through the undergrowth behind him and with every step he expected those teeth to clamp around the backs of his legs. He took a sudden left and heard the dog skid to change direction. Then he swerved again, close between two crooked trees, leaping over a thicket of brambles. He wheezed hard and felt the dizziness building. If a seizure took him now he’d be served up on a plate for that beast. Finished. He gulped air. Just a little longer. Please. He saw a shard of light up ahead, lancing through the canopy. The park was near. He glanced back and saw the Alsatian a few short paces behind, struggling through a nest of brambles, tongue lolling, cold eyes glaring. Ryan pushed his legs faster. He could barely feel them now and his vision had started to flicker. It was the aura, the first disorienting stage of the seizure. Visions of the seizure dream flashed through his head as he tore through the undergrowth, ignoring the whip and sting of the thorns. All he wanted was the sunlight, the white between the trees that promised some kind of safety. He realised he was still carrying the heavy bit of pipe and he chucked it away with a wearying effort. ‘Fetch!’ he croaked as the pipe thumped uselessly to the ground. He felt his head spin. He heard the breath of the Alsatian at his heels. And he ran for the light, as the neurons in his brain fired out of control and tried to drag him into the chaos of a seizure.
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Laura James Laura was 12 when her poem My Sister Amy won a competition in the United States and was included in the rather grandly entitled anthology, Distinguished Poets of America. It was even available on cassette tapes and calendars. Fame at last! Disappointingly, however, the regular requirements of life still persisted so after school she gained a degree in Film Studies from the University of Kent. She then went to London and worked for some amazingly talented and creative people as an assistant. She was lucky enough to work on a few films including Veronica Guerin and Slumdog Millionaire. Laura now works as a virtual assistant and lives in a tiny cottage outside Bath with her wire-haired dachshund, Brian. laurajames_@me.com
About Smoke Twelve-year-old Mia Charlesworth thinks her family is special. She just doesn’t realise how special until they are taken from her. Mia uncovers a family secret bigger than she could ever have imagined. After the War her great-grandfather established a secret intelligence unit to protect British children: Operation Phantom Listener. Dad runs the unit now, but for it to remain effective it must remain a secret. As repayment for his gambling debts, Mia’s uncle Karl has leaked OPL information to London’s most notorious criminals, the Tower Brothers. With it, the Tower Brothers are able to take over the country. Mia must track them down to their subterranean den, save her family, her country and the man who endangered them all.
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Smoke (extract) Dear Commissioner, It is with much regret that following the disappearance of the 12-year-old, codenamed Mia Charlesworth, on 1 September, whilst in my care, I hereby tender my resignation, effective from today. The search to find the missing girl shall, of course, continue without me. Yours sincerely, Detective Chief Inspector, Bruce Tyler, CID Friday 31 August 11:15 The Charlesworths’ South Bank flat, London Mia Charlesworth felt restless. She chipped at the black paint on the balcony railing with her fingernail. Below her, the little patches of garden belonging to the other flats on Aquinas Street were lush and green. There was a plane tree in the middle and through its leaves she could make out the curve of the London Eye. Across the river stood the Houses of Parliament, where Dad worked. She didn’t know exactly what he did but she was convinced it was extremely important. And she was determined that one day she’d work there too. ‘Come inside, Mia,’ Mum called out. ‘It’s going to rain.’ Mia stepped back into the kitchen. It was a mess. ‘Livy, have you made a cake yet or have you just destroyed the place?’ she asked. Her little sister giggled. ‘Now we’re going to whizz the machine.’ Mum smiled. She and Livy were both covered in flour. Empty eggshells and half-squeezed lemons lay all over the surfaces. ‘Fingers in ears, everyone,’ said Mum. Livy clamped her hands over her ears and jumped up and down, her cheeks pink with excitement. Mia settled down at the kitchen table. ‘Reeeeady?’ Mum teased Livy, her hand on the dial of the ancient food mixer. Livy nodded and looked expectantly at Mia, who smiled back. 101
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‘OK,’ said Mum, ‘threeeeeee … twooooooooooooo. … one!’ She turned the dial, filling the kitchen with a terrible drone whilst Livy ran in giddy circles. At the far end of the corridor Mia saw Dad and perked up. He was home very early and running, which was odd. His tweed jacket flapped open and his thin tie was over his shoulder. He was shouting something but she couldn’t make it out over the din in the kitchen. Mia pushed past Mum and switched off the mixer. Livy stopped dead, her hands still over her ears, eyes wide. Mum was about to reprimand Mia when she heard Dad shout, ‘Kate!’ and he was at the kitchen door, pale and breathless. ‘Simon?’ she replied. ‘They know, Kate. We have to go.’ Mum didn’t move. ‘Now, Kate!’ he said. ‘We have to leave.’ ‘Oh, my god,’ whispered Mum. She grabbed Livy’s wrist. ‘Girls, go to the car,’ she ordered. ‘Why? Where are we going?’ asked Mia. ‘Now, Mia!’ shouted Dad. Approximately 11:20 Mia climbed into their old red Mini, clipped Livy into her car seat and watched as Dad hurried out of their apartment building. The beeyou, beeyou of a fire alarm rang out across the street. ‘We need to go back to my office,’ he said squeezing his tall frame into their tiny car. ‘Is that safe?’ asked Mum getting into the driver’s side, still wearing her cooking apron. He didn’t reply. Livy started to cry. ‘Be quiet, Olivia!’ Dad scolded. Livy blubbed and scrunched her face angrily. ‘It’s OK, Livy,’ said Mia soothingly. ‘Take Babbit. He’s a bit scared. Can you make him feel better?’ She picked up a soft grey rabbit from the floor of the car and handed it to Livy. Mum turned the key in the ignition. 102
Nothing. She turned it again. Still nothing. Dad punched the dashboard with his fist. Mia shrank back and held Livy’s hand, which was cold and clammy. Mum turned the key again and this time the car jolted into life. They left Aquinas Street and headed for Westminster. ‘Drop me at the traffic lights and do three circuits of Parliament Square,’ Dad said. ‘If I’m not outside Westminster tube on your third circuit just keep driving until you reach Somerset. Do you understand?’ Mum nodded. ‘And remember—’ he said, ‘I love you.’ He kissed her, then turned to the back seat. ‘I love you all.’ Livy clutched Babbit to her face. Mia looked into Dad’s eyes and was shocked to see that he was scared. ‘We love you too,’ she said. He jumped out of the car and they drove off. Mia watched him dart between the pedestrians. At the Carriage Gates entrance to the Houses of Parliament he showed the police his pass then quickly crossed to the Members’ Entrance and out of sight. The Mini was now in Parliament Square. Mum was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and driving painfully slowly. ‘Are we going to Grandma’s?’ asked Mia, desperate to know what was going on. ‘Yes,’ Mum replied. ‘All of us?’ ‘Yes, darling.’ Then a pause. ‘I hope so.’ From the back seat Mia could see Mum’s face in the wing mirror. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek. ‘I’ll use your phone and call Grandma to say we’re coming,’ she offered. ‘No, Mia!’ snapped Mum. ‘No phones. Just be quiet and look out for Dad.’ They were on their second circuit now but there was no sign of him. Large spots of rain bounced off the Mini. Pedestrians opened their umbrellas or took cover where they could. 103
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Inside, the car began to fog up. Mum reached across Mia and wound down the passenger side window to let some fresh air in. They began their third circuit. ‘Daddy!’ exclaimed Livy happily. She was right. Dad was crossing Bridge Street and heading towards Westminster tube. ‘Well done Livy,’ sighed Mum. They were stuck at the traffic lights but Mia saw Dad wave. ‘He’s seen us,’ she said. Now that the rain had emptied the streets it was easier to spot where Dad was. It was also easier to see that three men were approaching from the direction of the bridge and heading straight for him. ‘Mum?’ asked Mia. ‘I see them,’ she replied, beeping the horn as a warning. ‘We’re in the wrong lane,’ said Mia quietly. They needed to cross the traffic and get into the bus lane outside the tube station. There were two cars in front of them. It wasn’t going to be easy and they didn’t have much time, the men were closing in on him. ‘Beep the horn again,’ Mia urged. Mum pressed the horn continuously and flicked on the headlights and hazards confusing nearby drivers who beeped back angrily. Dad looked at them questioningly and waved again. At last, the lights changed and Mum manoeuvred the Mini across three lanes of traffic. Cars ground to a halt around them, as everyone slammed on their brakes. The three men were almost level with Dad. He turned and spotted them just as the Mini pulled up beside him. ‘Take this,’ he said, throwing something through the open passenger window. ‘Kate, it’s smoke! Just drive!’ For a second Mum hesitated then she hit the accelerator and they sped away. Mia watched in horror as Dad was violently struck on the face. His body crumpled as it hit the pavement, where it remained, unmoving. ‘Daddy!’ she screamed, smacking her palm against the back window. A crowd gathered, and that was the last she could see of him. 104
Eyewitness: Shelly O’Connor, 39-year-old day-tripper from Leicester I was watching the Mini ’cos it was driving like crazy, messing up all the traffic. Either going too slow or too fast. People were honking their horns and getting real mad. Then it pulled up outside the tube station and this tall guy in a tweed jacket shouted at them and they drove off. Then these three men surrounded him and one of them smacked him one, right between the eyes. It all happened so quick, like. My husband didn’t see any of it, too busy looking at Big Ben, or whatever. He never pays attention. That guy in tweeds didn’t really look the type to get beaten up. Those men carried him away, though, so I s’pose they’ll take care of him will they? 11:46 ‘What are you doing?’ yelled Mia as she scrambled over the seats and sat in the front. ‘We have to go back and get Dad. They hit him, Mum, didn’t you see?’ They were already over Westminster Bridge and speeding along Lambeth Palace Road. ‘I saw, Mia,’ replied Mum, ‘but we have to keep going,’ ‘What? How can you? You can’t just leave him there.’ Mia grabbed the Mini’s steering wheel and attempted to swing the car round. They swerved dangerously towards a cyclist who veered off into the curb. ‘Mia!’ Mum screamed, ‘Are you trying to kill us all?’ A fire engine came towards them, its lights flashing and siren blaring full blast. Mum pulled in to let it pass. When it had Mia asked quietly, ‘They’re not going to kill him, are they Mum?’ ‘No, darling. I don’t think so. I think they’ll want him alive,’ she replied. ‘Who are they? Why would they want to hurt him?’ ‘I’m not sure. I’ve an idea, but that’s all. He didn’t want me to know the details. It’s something to do with work. Your father’s a very special man, Mia. He warned me, one day, something like this might happen. I just have to get us all to Grandma’s. We’ll be safe there and she’ll know what to do.’ ‘What did he give you?’ asked Mia. 105
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‘When?’ ‘When we pulled in outside the tube?’ she replied. ‘He threw something into the car.’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. Have a look.’ Mum cut in front of a white van and followed the road signs for the South West. Mia rummaged on the floor of the Mini. It was littered with empty juice boxes and parking receipts. Her hand touched on a small, cold, metal object. She turned it over in her hand. It looked like a memory stick. ‘Why would he throw this in the car?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know,’ Mum replied, glancing at it. ‘Put it in your pocket and keep it safe. He must have had his reasons.’ ‘It’s a bit hi-tech for Dad, don’t you think?’ said Mia looking at it. She put it in her jeans pocket and turned to look in the back seat. ‘You OK, Livy?’ Livy was asleep, Babbit still in her hand. ‘Mum, why did he say, it’s smoke, to you?’ ‘It’s just something your Dad and I talked about, once. You don’t need to know everything, Mia.’ 13:03 travelling westbound on the M3 approaching Junction 8 and the exit for the A303 Mia used her sleeve to wipe the condensation from the window. They were in the fast lane and the Mini was rattling like a space rocket re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere. It had probably never gone this fast before. A black Range Rover with tinted windows appeared beside them. ‘Hey,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Do you think there’s someone famous in that car?’ ‘The Queen!’ said Livy, who’d slept fitfully since they’d left London. Her eyes were still red from crying. Mum remained quiet. The whites of her knuckles stood out as she gripped the steering wheel. Mia looked at the Range Rover again. ‘You never know, Livy. It might be. She’s got to get about somehow, hasn’t she?’ 106
There seemed to be four people in the car. It was difficult to tell with the dark glass. Perhaps they were royalty: a driver, a bodyguard and a couple in the back. The traffic was thinning out but as it cleared the Range Rover remained at their side, like a menacing shadow. After a while Mia asked, ‘Are they blocking us in?’ ‘Looks like,’ replied Mum, grimly. The Range Rover clearly wasn’t going to pull into the slow lane. It just stayed next to them. It was an intimidatingly big car and much higher up than the Mini, which had tiny wheels. The passenger window of the Range Rover slid down halfway. ‘They’re going to say hello,’ said Livy, delighted, waving her hand. But as Mia watched, the barrel of a gun appeared above the lowered window. It wasn’t the Queen. ‘Mum!’ she shouted. A gunshot was fired causing the Mini’s front tyre to burst and sending the car out of control. It ricocheted off the Range Rover and then off the central reservation barrier. Mia screamed and Livy wailed in the back. Mum braked hard and the Range Rover flew past them. She then swerved the Mini in behind it. ‘Are they going to kill us?’ asked Mia. ‘I hope not,’ replied Mum. Mia didn’t feel encouraged. The Range Rover braked and the two vehicles drove perilously slowly. Cars were fast approaching from behind. A haulage lorry undertook them and as it passed Mum swung the car into the slow lane and then onto the hard shoulder. The great length of the lorry now protected them. But Mia could just make out the Range Rover’s wheels on its other side. The lorry kicked up dirt and spray and the little wipers on the Mini battled to clear the windscreen. They could only see a short distance ahead. ‘Are you OK?’ whispered Mum. ‘Yes,’ Mia replied, although she didn’t feel it. ‘You OK, Livy darling?’ Mum asked, looking at her younger 107
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daughter in the rear-view mirror. Mia turned round to look at Livy. She was sucking her thumb and threading Babbit’s ears through her fingers. Mia held Livy’s foot, the nearest gesture to a hug she could manage. ‘Nearly at Grandma’s,’ she lied. The ailing Mini drew level with the front of the lorry. They passed the spray from its wheel arch and were able to see properly again. The black shape of the Range Rover was now in front of the lorry. ‘Mum!’ shouted Mia. Ahead was a road sign: NO HARD SHOULDER FOR 100 YARDS They were approaching a motorway flyover, the hard shoulder was ending and they were rapidly running out of road. Mum braked, throwing Mia forward and making her seat belt jab painfully on her breastbone. Mum punched the horn desperately, but the lorry driver was oblivious to their plight, until it was too late. Mum threw a protective arm across Mia and they hit the barrier. The small bonnet of the car crumpled and Mia’s body lurched forwards as the dashboard pushed towards her stomach, trapping her. The Mini flipped onto its roof and then onto its side as it skidded along the tarmac. It shrieked and jolted, glass smashed and the bodywork mangled, until finally it stopped.
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Max O’Sullivan Growing up in Ireland Max always loved peculiar stories, the type which made impossible things feel real. Over the years he’s done a variety of strange jobs (language teacher, pastry chef, roadie) and pursued a series of obsessive hobbies (fencing, cinema, stringed instruments, hats) before eventually realising he needed to sort out this writing business once and for all and move to Bath. Last year, travelling back and forth from Dublin Airport, Max got used to passing the notorious Ballymun council flats and the idea for his book took shape. Summarised as ‘Narnia meets Once Upon a Time in America’, Walls is Max’s first YA novel. He’s also working on a humorous story for younger readers about a transcontinental car race. When writing Max likes to drum absently on his desk and mutter the words back to himself, a habit his flatmate in the next room describes as ‘hugely irritating’. osullim3@tcd.ie
About Walls Things have changed for 15-year-old Kai. Dad used to be a teacher and Mum used to work in an office. They used to all live together in a normal house in an average town where he could do everyday things like go to school or see his friends. Then the problems started. The old world began dying and people had to move, first in their thousands, then in their millions. No one really knows who discovered this place, who first found the doorway through the walls. All that matters now is surviving, making a new life in the sprawling metropolis on the other side. Nothing you did or had back home counts for much here, the natives just need workers for their factories. But with more immigrants arriving every day Kai’s learning quicker than his parents that sometimes you have to adapt to stay ahead. Sometimes you have to be ruthless … 112
Walls (extract) Chapter One: The Tower I slip from the elevator and move fast down the corridor, tiptoeing to avoid the creakier floorboards. If I can just make it home, just reach the flat … No use. Mrs Komplinsky has heard me and comes shuffling down the hall just as I’m taking my key out. The old landlady can move quickly when she wants to. Short and frail, her face so pleated with wrinkles you usually can’t tell whether she’s happy or sad. Except right now it’s pretty obvious she’s angry. Very angry. ‘Your father is a liar!’ she says, shrieking at me in broken English. ‘You tell him that! Tell him I said he’s a liar! And your mother! Tell her I said she’s lazy! If they can’t pay the rent I’ll have your whole stinking family kicked out. You understand? Back out on the streets where you belong!’ I nod politely, trying to edge past her into the flat. I’m tired. The schoolbag’s heavy on my shoulders. Normally I’d just wait for the rant to finish but there isn’t time today. Mum and Dad will be back from work soon. I need to get inside. I need to check the signal. Mrs Komplinsky positions herself by the door, so I can’t get past without literally pushing her over. She smells stale, like talcum powder and cat-hair. ‘Sure,’ I mumble, eyes down. ‘They were just a little late this month, work’s slow and—’ ‘Pah!’ spits the old woman, jabbing me in the stomach with her walking stick. ‘I don’t want excuses. You know how many little wretches like you there are waiting to take this flat? I have them lining up round the block …’ She flaps her hands about, to represent the other tenants, then jabs me again. ‘You understand? You understand what I’m saying, little boy?’ More nodding. I must have told Mrs Komplinsky my name a hundred times but she still just calls me ‘little boy’. The sound of a cat mewing drifts down the corridor. The old woman glances anxiously 113
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back towards her own apartment. ‘You haven’t heard the last of me. I want the money tomorrow. Tomorrow! You understand?’ I nod again. She makes a huffing noise and bustles back down the hall. I wait a moment then quickly unlock the door, stepping inside and slamming it shut again. Home. The place is a mess, same as always. I throw down my bag and start sorting through the letter box – all leaflets and bills. I can hear noise jabbering from next door’s TV. The flat isn’t big enough. There’s too many of us for such a small space. Too many clothes hanging on radiators, too many filthy dishes in the sink, too many voices yelling between thin walls. I head straight to the bedroom I’m sharing with my sister Hannah. It’s unpleasantly narrow, with bunk beds bolted to the wall and a slanting ceiling which forces you to stoop down almost as soon as you’ve entered. I can hear the ventilation fans chugging in the ceiling and see heating pipes through the wallpaper. Even the rooms feel like they’ve been squashed together. It’s been a long day. I just want to lie down on the mattress and go to sleep. It may be cramped but Mrs Komplinsky’s right. There are plenty of other families who’d pay anything to get a flat in the high-rises. Every month since we moved in it’s been a struggle on the rent. We can’t start falling behind now. I jam into the small gap next to the window, rubbing away the condensation with my sleeve. It’s uncomfortable, but this is the only place to sit where you can properly see out the window. Mum’s always banging on about how it’s healthier to use natural light. Some of the cheaper apartments – the ones in the middle of the building near the boiler room – don’t have windows at all, and the families who live there always seem pale and sickly. There isn’t much to see of course. Just blue sky and scrolls of cloud. The apartment is on floor 932, ten thousand feet from the basement and eleven thousand feet above sea level. A whole weather system away from the ground. It’s a clear day so I can see the other tower blocks as well. Rows and rows and rows of them. Grey and crumbling and unimaginably tall. So many of them it makes your head spin. Down at ground level it was actually quite warm, but up here the climate is different. There’s a bright crust of snow on the window ledge. 114
Only poor people live in the high-rises. You’d think if they can get the building to stabilise at this height they’d be able to get the rooms to heat up properly or stop the interior walls getting cracked with damp. It doesn’t work that way. Everything inside is cheap, everything breaking or rusting. There are a lot of rules to memorise as well, safety instructions stamped on red signs everywhere. Even inside cupboards and across the back of bedroom doors. Winds get lethal and you aren’t allowed out on the balconies if there’s been a severe weather warning. A couple of months back some old guy on Floor 834 got sucked out by a sudden shift in air pressure. It’s dangerous, that’s why rents are lower the higher up you go. ‘No place to raise a family,’ Dad always sighs, even though that’s exactly what he’s doing. To be honest I don’t mind. It’s all right, once your body gets used to all the new stuff – the low oxygen and the higher resolution of sunlight. We got headaches for the first few weeks, bad ones, but never vertigo. Even with binoculars you can’t see all the way to the bottom, so the height doesn’t seem real somehow. Like it’s just too much for your brain to process. Right now I’ve got bigger problems. I need to check if Mila’s home. She lives right across the way, a few floors down in the tower opposite us. I hear Hannah asleep in the top bunk. Snoring softly and curled into a tiny ball under the duvet. She’s only four, so doesn’t have to work yet. Sometimes she goes in with Mum, sitting by her feet for hours on end in the noisy factory, but not today. I try to be quiet, reaching under the mattress and lifting out the leather pouch holding my binoculars. Then I creep back to the window and look out again. It’s still hard to make out details. All I see are other windows. Hundreds and hundreds of them, laid out in straight, identical rows. I tweak the lens, adjusting it so the image narrows then blurs into focus. Lining up is always the tricky part, it’s easy to lose your spot or get confused. I’ve learnt to calculate where Mila’s flat is by memorising the number of windows down and across, like counting on a grid. I can see washing-lines, TV aerials, balconies stacked like tiny shelves one on top of the other. I stop once I reach the spot, 115
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a smudge behind a window with purple curtains. If Mila didn’t have those purple curtains it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. I adjust the focus. The smudge becomes a shape and the shape becomes a girl. A frowning girl. She turns away for a second to get something, then presses a piece of notepaper to the window. The words are scrawled in biro, big and all in capital letters: YOU’RE LATE I sigh and fumble at my feet for something to write on, tearing out a page from the back of one of Hannah’s old colouring books. I scribble a reply and hold it up: Sorry, got delayed. We still on for this evening? I watch carefully. Mila adjusts her own binoculars and reads what I’ve written. A minute later another message pops up, this time with so much writing the notepaper pretty much covers the entire window: YEAH BUT GET A MOVE ON. ALMOST RUSH HOUR. IF YOU’RE NOT DOWNSTAIRS IN TEN MINUTES I’M STARTING WITHOUT YOU. I wait a moment before committing to an answer. She’s right of course; if we’re going to do a job it needs to coincide with rush hour. That’s when the trains are busiest and most people are coming home from work. But I’m already so tired I can barely bring myself 116
to stand up. It’s been a long day and the elevator journey alone took half an hour to get me up here. The thought of going all the way down again makes my heart sink. Not to mention the risk involved. Or the guilt. I look down at my watch: ten past five. I can get down and back before dinner. Dad’s very insistent we all sit down as a family in the evening. Any later they’ll start asking questions, want to know where I’ve been. I tear out another page: OK, BUT I NEED TO BE BACK BY SIX. I line up the binoculars again. Mila takes a minute, re-reading the message, then squints, frowns and rolls her eyes. She quickly turns away and scribbles down a new message, pinning it up before I even have time to look away: FINE, BUT STOP BEING SUCH A LOSER.
Chapter Two: The Town The elevator is old and makes a sort of gulping noise as it drops down through the building. I watch the buttons on the door light up as 931 floors click by, the change in air pressure making my ears pop like on an aeroplane. Normally it takes about half an hour to reach the ground floor. It’s designed that way as a safety feature – so your body has time to adjust to the drop in altitude. I’m nervous; worried I’ll bump into one of our neighbours amidst the crowds heading home. I don’t want to have to explain where I’m going, what I’m doing. Dad’s always saying we have to pick up any extra work we can to pay the rent, but he doesn’t mean this. He wouldn’t understand. I’m not even supposed to go out in the evening. Things get rough 117
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around Downtown once the factories close up for the night. Mila’s waiting for me in the lobby, dressed in a grey coat and that hat she always wears with the flaps over the ears. She punches me on the shoulder by way of greeting. ‘You look nervous Kai. Snap out of it, people will get suspicious if you mope around with that big worried face on you.’ I open my mouth to answer but she just talks over me. ‘Oh and we need to sort out a better system for sending messages, I can’t keep using bits of paper, it’s stupid.’ I shrug. ‘Well what else are we supposed to do? It’s not like I can get a phone signal up there.’ ‘Think of something, be resourceful.’ I’ve never actually asked but I’m guessing Mila’s a year or two older than me, probably around 17. Her accent sounds American or Canadian but it’s hard to be sure. Mila’s one of these people who doesn’t like talking about the past, about life back in the Old World. I don’t even know if she has parents or a family here with her. We fall into line, both too tired to talk, and head for town. It’s the usual beat tonight. Rush hour. Everyone’s leaving work so the Passage-Trains are busiest now. That’s our best chance – the commuters all milling about, too tired or stressed to be on their guard. Being back on ground level is a shock. The streets at the base of the high-rises are barely streets at all; alleys and lanes cast dark by the enormous buildings surrounding them, full of smoke and noise. Everything is crammed. A rush of sounds and smell – stalls of fly-carpeted meat, shouting traders, sacks of spices and rotting fruit piled on boards, steam rising from manholes. Men push by in suits, children beg in rags. Everywhere the stench of gas and cooking-grease and sewers. Under the skyscrapers everything seems smaller, streets and crowds and stall vendors all squashed together. Roads as cramped as lanes and lanes as narrow as tunnels. Mila grips my hand so we don’t lose each other. The crowd tightens as we move towards the subway opening, the concrete steps leading down to escalators, which in turn go down to the Passage-Trains. Me and Mila separate at the entrance, trying to blend 118
with the crowd streaming down towards the platforms, all footsteps and echoing voices. It’s best people don’t recognise us together. Mila normally works alone, but for jobs in the evening she needs an accomplice, someone to act as a decoy. We’re a pretty good team by now. I feel bodies pressing from behind. The escalator is scarily high and jammed with passengers. There are already a few obvious marks. Mila’s sizing them up too, deciding who we should go with – a woman with her bag half-open, a fat man with a satchel. The trick’s to be patient. For jobs like this you need an exit strategy. Luckily I’m small. Mila says that’s the only reason she lets me work with her. Because I’m almost as small as a girl and girls make better pickpockets. They can slip between corners, disappear quickly in crowds. I look over. Mila keeps her eyes straight ahead but nods very slightly towards the woman with the half-open bag. The signal is subtle, no-one watching would even notice. I nod back. Looks straightforward. We reach the end of the escalator and follow the woman onto the platform. There’s a train pulling up, and we slip in behind her just as the doors shut. Inside is heaving, commuters pushed up against each other, coughing or reading newspapers or staring blankly ahead. We elbow as far in as we can get, still keeping tabs on our woman. There’s a beep. The carriage lurches forward. I feel the floor slide under my feet, overhead lights buzzing on and off. Mila removes her coat, winding it up casually so her hands are concealed. She edges forward, making sure we’re standing close enough to the mark before the next station. My job’s to distract them, to step out in front at the crucial moment. It’s about timing. Mila signals for me to move into position. But then I spot something out the corner of my eye and hesitate; a man in the crowd maybe three metres to my left. He’s oldish and bald, clutching a battered brown briefcase up against his chest. And maybe it’s the guy’s face or the nervous way he’s gripping the handle and glancing round, but somehow I know we need to switch targets. This could be the big one.
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Siân Patrick Siân was born in Wales, and spent much of her childhood reading and re-enacting her favourite stories. She worked as a primary school teacher for two years, which was great fun, and an excellent excuse to keep reading children’s books! Siân has always ‘written’ stories in her head, but it was only whilst on the MAWYP that she managed to capture a whole one in ink-andpaper format. The All and the Everything is Siân’s first novel for teen readers. She is now writing her second, living in Worcestershire with her nearlyhusband and many, many boxes of books. Her greatest ambition is to one day own a bookcase tall enough to hold them all – with a ladder to reach the very top. sian.patrick@cantab.net
About The All and the Everything Fifteen-year-old Shell is in love. Not everyone is happy about her relationship with Ben, but Shell doesn’t care. Ben makes her feel special; like the best version of herself. It’s them against the world, and once his exams are out of the way, they’ll be free to spend the whole summer together. Soon, however, Ben changes. He becomes distant, moody, and keeps popping pills for troubling headaches. But before Shell can find out why, Ben suffers a terrible accident, in circumstances that just don’t make sense … In the months that follow, Shell discovers that nothing is as she thought it was, and it seems that the more she finds out, the more questions are raised. What really happened on the day of the accident? Was Ben truly the person she thought he was? And most importantly: who is Shell now, without him?
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The All and the Everything (extract) Chapter One When I’m with Ben, the world has more life in it. Everything’s sharper, brighter – just more of itself. It’s like when you’ve been watching TV for ages, and someone comes into the room and switches the light on; it’s only then that you realise how dark it was before. That’s how it feels when he walks into the bike shop on Tuesday afternoon. I get this weird little squeeze in my chest – half-sick, halfexcited – and I have to make a real effort not to leap over the counter. I flick my hair over my shoulders and press my lips together to check my gloss hasn’t worn off. ‘Over here!’ ‘There you are.’ He peers through the racks of bike frames to the back of the shop, where I’m sitting behind the till. He’s wearing the grey T-shirt I bought him for his birthday, with the top two buttons undone, just how I like it. I lean over the counter to kiss him. His face is cold from cycling, but his lips are warm. ‘Mmm.’ He pulls away, and I try not to go cross-eyed as he stares at me. ‘I’ve missed you.’ ‘Me too.’ Stroking my hair away from my face, he smiles; then raises his eyebrows as the display behind me catches his eye. ‘Hey, is that the new helmet cam? When did that arrive?’ Ben’s bike-crazy. He can talk about different frames and tyres and GPS systems for hours. It gets on my nerves sometimes, but I can’t be too grumpy about it; if it weren’t for Ben’s biking, we wouldn’t have met. His chain snapped while he was cycling past my uncle’s bike shop, and I happened to be helping him out for a bit that weekend. Ben came in, Neil fitted a new chain, and I dropped his change all over the floor when I was trying to give it back to him. I sigh. We haven’t seen each other since Saturday and I’m impatient to have him to myself. Anyway, if you hang around in here for longer than 20 minutes, the smell of rubber and grease starts to seep into your clothes. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be going for a ride?’ 123
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‘Sorry.’ He laughs, and kisses the top of my head. ‘No more bikegeek, I promise.’ ‘Let’s go then!’ I roll my eyes, sling my bag over my shoulder, and follow him out of the shop. We head west, away from the city and towards the river. Ben cycles ahead because I’m still nervous when there’s lots of traffic. It’s a relief when we reach the bridge and turn off the road onto the footpath. ‘Well done, babe.’ Ben lifts our bikes over the gate. ‘You’re getting much more confident.’ ‘It’s still scary when a car comes too close. Hey—’ I put a hand on Ben’s handlebars. ‘Let’s not go all the way to Grantchester tonight. Let’s just find a bench along here somewhere and sit for a while.’ ‘OK.’ We cycle down the footpath side by side, splitting apart to avoid dog walkers and couples who are out enjoying the evening sunshine. We go slowly, holding hands when we can, searching for a nice place to stop. ‘What about under there?’ Ben points to a huge weeping willow, its branches spanning the space between the riverbank and the footpath. We dismount and wheel our bikes through the swaying strands; they hang like leafy curtains, shielding us from the rest of the world. I lean my bike against the trunk, hanging my helmet on the handlebar, and find a grassy patch to sit down on. ‘So, how’s revision going?’ ‘Not too bad. I’ve been trying to sort out a timetable, but it’s really complicated.’ Ben lies back on the grass, and holds his arm out for me to cuddle up to him. ‘How was school?’ ‘Fine.’ I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in the warm scent of his aftershave and listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. ‘I’ve been asked to do my school’s textiles entry for the summer Arts Festival.’ ‘Really? That’s amazing, babe! Well done!’ ‘Mum’s really excited; she can’t wait to tell Gran.’ ‘I bet.’ Ben plays with a strand of my hair, threading it through 124
his fingers and brushing it across my cheek. ‘Hey! That tickles.’ ‘Does it?’ Ben traces the tip of his finger down my arm and across my stomach, then makes a dart for my ribs. ‘Ben!’ I giggle, squirming to get away, but he just holds me tighter. ‘Stop!’ I try to wriggle out of his grip, but laughing makes me too weak. I roll onto my back, and he pins my arms down by my sides and leans over me. I can see myself reflected in his blue-grey eyes. Suddenly, neither of us is laughing. I slide my arms around his neck and pull him down onto me, running my hands across his shoulders as he leaves a trail of soft kisses along my collarbone. I close my eyes, ignoring the voice in my head that’s telling me to be careful. I don’t want to listen; I want to get carried away, and not worry about where this is leading. But as I slip my hands under his T-shirt, the voice gets louder: we’re out in the open, anyone could see … ‘Sorry …’ I gently push him away, tucking my hair behind my ears. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to stop, it’s just— ’ ‘It’s OK, Shell, I know.’ Ben runs his hands through his hair. ‘It’s the same for me.’ He takes a few deep breaths, and when he looks back at me, the urgency in his eyes has faded. ‘We shouldn’t do anything more; not here.’ ‘Not here.’ We lie down again, watching the strands of willow leaves dancing in the soft breeze. ‘Ben, have you ever … done more?’ ‘What?’ ‘Have you ever gone further?’ He props himself up on one elbow. ‘Not much. One time, I suppose I got close.’ ‘Who with?’ I try to ignore the tight clench of jealousy in my chest. ‘A girl from school. We’d just had a couple of dates, nothing serious. We weren’t really together – not the way you and I are. But we were at my friend Aaron’s house one night, and we were kissing, and things … progressed.’ ‘Progressed how?’ I don’t really want to hear this, but I have to 125
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ask. ‘Like what we were doing just now?’ Ben’s cheeks flush. ‘And a bit more. She, um … took her top off, if you must know.’ ‘Why did you stop?’ He pulls up a handful of grass, and lets it rain down through his fingers onto my bare arm. ‘Didn’t feel right. I didn’t love her.’ Ben’s the only guy I know who talks about love like it’s something important. Gemma says it’s really old-fashioned, but I like that he takes it seriously. It means he takes me seriously, too. Ben’s watch beeps. It’s half-past seven already; I didn’t think to bring any bike lights and it’ll be getting dark by the time we’ve cycled back into the city. We should go. But lying here with my head on Ben’s chest and his breath in my hair and the heat from his body so close to mine, I don’t want to move. As if he can read my mind, Ben leans his head sideways until his mouth is almost touching my ear. ‘Shell,’ he whispers. Oh my god. Is he finally going to say it? He hesitates, and I turn my head towards him slightly, really scared all of a sudden. If he says it now, I’m not sure whether I’m ready to say it back. Isn’t it too soon? I hold my breath. But it turns out he’s scared too, because in the end, he just says, ‘You smell like rubber.’ Fantastic.
Chapter Two Ben takes me out for a pizza on Friday. We go to the restaurant near the railway station because you can have barbecue sauce instead of plain old tomato, and I sit on a stool in the window to people-watch while we wait. I love evenings like this; when the pavements are warm and the air seems golden and everyone lingers outside instead of rushing home and shutting themselves away from the world. I take the can of Coke Ben holds out to me. ‘Who are you meeting tonight?’ ‘Just a couple of medical students from the University. Dad 126
knows one of the lecturers and he asked if I could chat to them about Uni applications and stuff.’ ‘Already? You haven’t even done your exams yet.’ ‘I know, but it can’t hurt to get a head start. The courses are so competitive.’ I shrug, and take a gulp from my can. ‘I suppose.’ ‘Seriously, Shell. You have no idea how hard it is.’ Once Ben starts talking about his exams or Uni, he always ends up feeling really down. He’s so worried that he’s not going to be good enough. My phone buzzes with a text from Gemma: Party on the Rec at 7. Got some cans. Bring vodka? xo Yeah, right. I can’t get served, and there’s no chance I’d get away with sneaking some from home. I text her back to tell her I’ll meet her there, and then I notice that Ben’s been reading over my shoulder. ‘Do you mind?’ I stuff my phone back into my bag. ‘That’s private.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Ben says sarcastically. ‘Was I not supposed to see that top-secret message about underage drinking and delinquent behaviour?’ ‘Shut up, Ben. You’re being stupid.’ I hate it when he gets like this. ‘I’m not the one planning on spending my evening sitting in the middle of a field getting wasted with a bunch of anti-social morons.’ ‘They’re not morons! Stop being horrible.’ ‘Why do you hang around with them, Shell? They’re bad news.’ Ben scowls, snatching our pizzas off the counter. ‘What, because they like a drink at the weekend? They’re my friends.’ ‘You’re 15! It’s illegal.’ ‘And?’ ‘Half of them can’t even spell, going by the graffiti I’ve seen splashed all over that estate.’ ‘My estate.’ I storm out, so angry I can hardly see where I’m going. And it’s not just Ben I’m angry with – that comment about the graffiti sounds just like something his mum would say. She’s obviously been having a go at him again, telling him not to hang around with me. 127
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‘Shell!’ I ignore him and keep walking. I’m going to try to get hold of some vodka from somewhere, just to spite him. I’ll see if Stacey’s brother can get it for me, he’s been served before. ‘Michelle, stop.’ I’ll get completely pissed, totally out of it, and then I’ll get the bus all the way back to Ben’s house and ring the doorbell until they let me in, and then I’ll be sick all over their thick cream carpet. I reach the bus stop and stand with my back to him, leaning against the pole, arms crossed. ‘Don’t you want any pizza?’ I ignore him. ‘Come on. Don’t be moody.’ He stands in front of me, trying to make me look at him, but I just stare over his shoulder as if he isn’t there. I can hear the bus coming up behind me. He hasn’t even apologised. The bus stops; I step on and pay my fare. Still, he says nothing. I make my way to a seat at the back. Then the bus pulls away, and it’s too late. I glance back before the bus rounds the corner, and see Ben still standing there, watching me disappear. This is the first time in six months that we’ve ever argued. I don’t feel hungry any more. I feel sick. I go straight to the Rec. There’s a crowd there already. Groups of people are sitting or lying on the grass, gathered around carrier bags or bottles of booze. There’s a cluster of older boys in the far corner, and some others playing a ragged game of football in the middle of the field. I make my way over, scanning for Gemma and Tash and the rest of our group. When I’m halfway across I spot them, sitting against the playground railings, watching the lads playing football. Gemma’s wearing her denim hot pants – I customised them for her the other night, cutting them shorter and adding little studs around the pockets – so Danny must be around somewhere. She jumps up when she sees me, and comes running over to give me a hug. 128
‘Shell!’ She turns to the others. ‘Shell’s here, guys. Everybody say “yay!”’ She must’ve had a few already. I laugh, and hug her back. ‘Alright?’ I flop down next to Tasha on the grass and flick one of her gold-beaded braids. ‘Watch it!’ She pats her scalp. ‘They’re still a bit tight. Here, want a chip?’ I take the bag from her gratefully; the smell of vinegar is making my mouth water. They’re still warm. ‘Thanks. What have I missed?’ Stacey reaches over Tasha’s legs to get me a can of lager, snapping it open with her teeth to save her fake nails. ‘Not a lot. Joe Willis was just down here looking for Owen; I reckon there’ll be a fight when he finds him. He owes him some money or something.’ Gemma sits next to me and leans back on her elbows. ‘Did you bring the vodka?’ I shake my head. ‘You know Mum would notice if I took it.’ A football suddenly shoots towards us and we all instinctively duck. It rattles off the metal railings behind our heads and rolls off to the side. I glance up to see Liam, Tasha’s sort-of boyfriend, wetting himself laughing. The lads jeer, and Tash jumps up. ‘You stupid idiots!’ ‘Oooh!’ One of the boys, an older, spotty guy I haven’t seen before, shoves Liam. ‘You’ll pay for that later, mate!’ ‘Shut up.’ Tash gives him the finger and sits down with her back to them. ‘Chuck us the ball, Gem!’ Danny yells from the other side of the field. He’s wearing a full-on England strip, complete with immaculate white boots and pretty-boy highlights. He looks ridiculous, but no one would dare say it. ‘Don’t,’ Tash mutters as Gemma reaches for the football. ‘They’ll only kick it at us again. Keep it over here. Or better still, stick a knife in it.’ ‘But Danny wants it,’ Gem insists, and she lobs it in his direction before Tash can stop her. As soon as it reaches him, Danny thumps it straight at us again. We duck and squeal, and the rest of the boys collapse into hysterics. Spotty whips his T-shirt off and swings it around in the air, completely unashamed of having his pasty chest on 129
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show. And it’s not only his face that’s covered in acne. ‘Come on.’ The three of us decide to get out of range, and go to sit on the swings. Gem lights a cigarette and offers the packet around. I shake my head. ‘What’s up with you? You’re not drinking much either.’ I look down at the nearly full can in my hand. ‘Don’t feel like it.’ ‘But it’s Friday!’ I shrug. ‘I’m just a bit fed-up. Had an argument with Ben earlier.’ I give Gem a look, and she nods, quickly changing the subject. ‘I’m going round to Danny’s house tomorrow night.’ ‘Are you staying over?’ ‘Maybe.’ She winks. I sigh, and stare at my shoes. I’ve had this discussion with Gemma so many times in the past fortnight. Danny’s a complete player. He gets through girls quicker than most people get through chewing gum, and he doesn’t treat them much better. Tash is all over it though, telling her how she should act, and reminding her to take condoms because he won’t think to get any. Normally I’d join in, especially now I’ve got Ben and it’s about to happen for me, too. Is it about to happen? The other night, when we went for that bike ride, it definitely felt like it. But now, after the argument … I scrunch up my newspaper – the rest of my chips have gone cold. Every time I feel like I’m getting the hang of the whole relationship thing, something unexpected happens. I wish things would stay as they are; then I’d know where I stand. But everything just keeps changing shape.
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Laura Temple Laura Temple is from Seattle, USA. She worked as a sociologist, playwright, and then an English teacher in Asia before pursuing her passion as a writer for teens in Bath. templl@ms.uw.edu
About The Storykeeper’s Apprentice Seventeen-year-old Pandora is anticipating life as a housewife when everything goes wrong. She wins a rigged contest and is apprenticed to the Storykeeper, Pangaea’s leader, before being stranded in a mysterious world. The moment Pandora leaves Pangaea, girls put down their lipsticks and pick up swords. Strangely Isis, Pandora’s best friend, seems to be the only one to notice. It’s up to her to find out why and bring Pandora home, hopefully before the murderous creature that’s been stalking Pandora between worlds catches up with her …
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The Storykeeper’s Apprentice (extract) Chapter One A crow calls out somewhere in the winter darkness of the gardens. I open my eyes. The sun won’t rise for another hour and my body doesn’t want to leave the warmth of my bed, but I need to hurry. My MemoryCloth sheets resume their made-bed state as I free myself from my bedclothes. Last night I programmed the Hygepure to use jasmine-scented steam, so I can step into the chamber right away. Like the Lesson says, ‘A woman cannot adapt to change, so she must be prepared for anything.’ It’s a little thing to get out of the way, but what I do next determines how well the rest of my day will go. I need to get it just right. I’m out of the bathroom and digging blindly through my box of Programming Pins for the makeup kit I keep hidden at the bottom. The lights won’t come on for another few minutes, but I’ve been doing this long enough that I can manage without them. The trick is to make it seem like I am not wearing any makeup at all, that this is how I always look. I can’t look cheap. My mother certainly doesn’t. The nude lip liner gives my mouth the proper fullness, and the black pencil shapes my eyebrows into a copy of her famous arch. The mechanical blinds on my windows click open and the lights come on. The rest of the students at Halcyon Academy will be waking up now. A few extra minutes of sleep every day would be nice, but it’s not like I have a choice. I’m not allowed to grow my hair past my shoulders until I graduate at the end of the year, but if I pull it back behind my ears just so, it’s almost the same. I put the finishing touches to my dark hair and admire the results. Yes! I’ve never done it this well before! I study myself closely, turning this way and that, then smile. My skin is darker and nothing can be done about the fact my eyes are brown rather than grey, but I look enough like my mother now that it’s OK. 135
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Out goes the Programming Pin for my nightgown, and in goes the Pin for my school uniform. I watch the reflected MemoryCloth swirl and re-form around me. One last glance in the mirror to make sure everything looks perfect. Yes! And with time to spare! Today’s going to be a really good day. It took a while to train my body to wake up without the alarm, but it’s been worth it. There aren’t as many whispers now. I was a plain little girl, so every time I was introduced to a new person I had to deal with the disappointment on their face. Not that I blame them. My mother is not only a famous beauty, but also the first female High Councilman in one hundred years. Now that I look like I could be Lady Pallas’s daughter it’s much better. People treat me like I’m not just some boring regular girl. I reach under the bed for my Holoscope, set the paper-like object on the duvet, and then take my usual seat on the cold floor. Like all Pangaeans, I never miss The Morning Program. At exactly 6:45 the Holoscope buzzes. I adjust my hair a final time; they can’t see me but it wouldn’t feel right not to look my best. A 3-D image of a man in a red dressing gown leaps off the Scope. He’s sitting in a comfortable study; an open leather-bound book rests across his lap. I breathe in deeply. His study has a good, manly smell, and the flames in his fireplace throw pretty patterns on my walls. ‘Good morning, Pangaea,’ the man greets us in his sophisticated accent. ‘Good morning, Lord Ferros,’ I reply as I always do, though I know he can’t hear me. ‘It is now 6:45 on Friday, December 5th, in the 156th year of The Storykeepers. Pleasant weather is scheduled for most of Pangaea today, although Sectors 5, 27, and 33 will experience light rain from one until four o’clock this afternoon. We must keep those crops healthy! ‘Today our story takes place in the land previously known as Formosa. As always, names, dates and places have been changed, but pay close attention and you should be able to name The Origin and The Lesson by the end. I will see you again after the conclusion of our story. Goodbye for now, friends.’ 136
Lord Ferros smiles and his dark eyes crinkle attractively at the corners. My cheeks burn. It’s not like I have a crush on him. He’s just so familiar – he’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s ridiculous I know, but when I was younger I would actually pretend he was my father reading me bedtime stories. ‘See you later, Lord Ferros,’ I whisper to the Minister of Education. The image of the study flickers and is replaced by a hilly landscape covered in tropical trees. It’s really nice of them to have a tropical episode on a morning like this; the scent of ocean, wet plants and sunshine warms my room. A gorgeous actor trudges into view. The Morning Program features the same troupe of a dozen or so actors every day, and he’s my absolute favorite. Not because of his muscular body or the fact he always ends up shirtless, like my friend Isis insists, but for his acting. Today he’s wearing those funny clothes of the military centuries ago. He manfully slices his way through the forest, branches shredding his shirt, until he comes to a small village of circular huts. Sitting on a throne is The-Actress-Who-Always-Plays-the-Slut. Yuck. Yesterday she played Delilah in a story set in a Laundromat in 21st-century New York City. Slut smiles up at Shirtless Actor, the seductive face she’s making under her headdress of shells is disgusting. I don’t think I blink once as the story unfolds. It’s all just so exciting! Shirtless Actor is a military man from another country set to conquer a new land. Slut plays a queen. They join forces to rule together, which causes a massive war. The story ends with Shirtless Actor dying valiantly in battle against his old friends. At least the stupid queen finds the decency to kill herself with the bite of a poisonous spider. She completely deserves it. My eyes are brimming with tears as the study flickers back onto the Scope. Poor Shirtless Actor! Lord Ferros sits in his chair, smiling sadly. Could that be a tear on his tanned cheek? ‘Wasn’t that lovely,’ he sighs. I nod, sniffling a little. ‘Now take a moment to think – can you spot The Origin?’ Soldier, a slapper queen, poison … ‘Antony and Cleopatra!’ I cry out. 137
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‘Good. The Origin of today’s story was the tale of Antony and Cleopatra. And what is The Lesson of that great story?’ ‘Choose women over duty and you will fail in your endeavors,’ I reply, quoting my third year text. ‘We learned from poor Antony that if you choose women over duty, you will fail in your endeavors. Excellent!’ Lord Ferros closes the book on his lap. ‘I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye for today, friends. I know we all learned something valuable. I look forward to joining you in your homes again tomorrow morning. And remember – a nation that learns together grows together.’ He smiles again. The Holoscope projects the green UniCorp logo and buzzes off. I stash it back under my bed. I can’t help but grin; I’ve been right about The Origin and The Lesson every day for the last three years running. A glance up at my clock: 7:20. Hair brushed, uniform on, book bag ready and 10 minutes to make the five-minute walk to the school’s dining hall for breakfast. All’s right with the world. I step out into the quiet of the hallway, as if the building were sleeping. I do this every morning, but I still hold my breath like I’m doing something sacred. I close my eyes and breathe in. I can smell the old green scent of the seaweed-formed polymer that the stone and wood are formed from, hear the scrape of bare branches against the tall arched windows. This is my special place. Brightly colored murals of scenes from stories that every Pangaean knows loom up on the walls beside me. The morning sun hits them just right giving them a dimension and life nobody else in Halcyon has ever seen. I pass a 20-foot-tall Odysseus stringing his bow to defeat the enemies who’d lined up to steal his throne during his long voyage. A handsome young David faces an enemy far bigger than himself with no more than a slingshot. Lancelot and Gawain ride off to bring peace and glory to the land of Camelot. I think I live for these few minutes every morning. I can pretend I’m up there with those great people on the murals. They will always be remembered, and there is nothing better in the world than being remembered. 138
The halls are still empty so I give the heroes a little curtsy before I move on. I hum to myself as I enter the dining hall and pick up a tray. A few teachers have already shown up; a lady I don’t know smiles and inclines her head respectfully as I pass. I must have done a truly fantastic job on my makeup. Thank goodness she is a woman, if it were a man I would have to remember which one of the dozens of possible masculine bows the situation requires and that always gets me flustered. I return her simple bow and carry on. The first of the dispensing machines scans my ID bracelet and a bowl of oatmeal plops down onto my tray. Yum, my favorite! This really is a good day. Students begin to pour into the hall. My hand sneaks up to check my hair as the second machine gives me a fresh fruit salad. I move on to the third machine and hold up my tray. Nothing happens. I wait. The machine sputters and whirs. My hands begin to shake. I’ve been alive for 17 years, and not once has anything I’ve used malfunctioned. I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I smile and wait some more, my ears burning from embarrassment. I turn to see a line has formed behind me. Goodness … everyone is careful to look anywhere but at me, not saying anything, of course. The muscles in my shoulders are seizing up, my chin is trembling, and my tray feels like it weighs one hundred pounds at least. Lady Pallas always looks poised, no matter the situation. I widen my smile and toss back my head, copying that iconic picture of when my mother first joined the High Council. A male voice cuts in. ‘Can I be of some assistance?’ Kai Rasmussen is standing behind me. Very close behind me. He smells nice, like citrus and cloves. His hand rests on the small of my back; my skin is electrified and my chest flutters. With his dark hair and hazel eyes, Kai is easily the best-looking boy at Halcyon. I don’t think he knows what to do either. He’s not on the Technician’s Track so he shouldn’t be expected to. He finally takes his hand off me, and tries looking up into the machine through the dispensing hole. He puts his ear against it and listens. Finally, Kai 139
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taps it a few times with his knuckles. ‘Pardon me, excuse me …’ he addresses the shiny metal. Still nothing happens. He pokes it. ‘Hmm, let’s see …’ And seemingly out of nowhere a giant of a girl gallops towards us, brandishing a butter knife like it’s Excalibur. Oh, goodness, no … She shoves Kai out of the way, plunges the knife up into the workings of the machine, and then gives a savage twist. A pile of sausages lands on my tray with a plop. ‘There ya are, babe,’ says Isis, my best friend and right now the most embarrassing person in the world. ‘Thanks,’ I hiss through my teeth. What is she even doing here? She’s been reliably late to breakfast every day since we started at Halcyon … ‘I believe you owe me an apology, harpy.’ Kai straightens his gold and brown uniform and crosses his arms across his chest. Isis turns to him and smiles. Uh oh. ‘Sorry I made your idea of politely asking the machine to start working again look moronic, Kai,’ she says sweetly. Kai reaches to slap her but stops halfway. ‘You aren’t even worth the energy.’ He storms off and the students behind me snicker. Sometimes I really wonder why I put up with Isis Moana, because certainly nobody else does.
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Illustrators Cover Alice Bowsher – alice_bowsher@hotmail.co.uk Charlie 001: You Only Live Twice (page 14) Sarah Hawkins – sarahhawkinsillustrator@gmail.com Control (page 28) Caroline Dunning – caroline.dunning09@bathspa.ac.uk Ruby and Ivy (page 38) Lavinia Tyler – lavinia.tyler09@bathspa.ac.uk Chalk (page 48) Sean Bastin – sean.bastin200@googlemail.com Life Force (page 58) and Deep Water (page 68) Hatty Leith – harriet.leith@googlemail.com Stone Rider (page 78) Sarah Joy Gordon – sarahjoygordon6@gmail.com Gateway (page 88) Eleanor Joy Holmes – holmes_eleanor@hotmail.com Smoke (page 98) Joe Gamble – josepholivergamble@gmail.com Walls (page 110) Ailbhe Ní Chaoimh – ailbhe_realt@hotmail.com The All and the Everything (page 120) Caroline Dunning – caroline.dunning09@bathspa.ac.uk The Storykeeper’s Apprentice (page 132) Elliot Kruszynski – elliotk1@hotmail.co.uk
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