Chapter One
The boy dreamed he was a general dreaming he was a boy.
In his mind, he stood in a large tent, many-coloured and made from rough canvas and stitched skins. It was bitterly cold. He wore the heavy pelt of some great beast, grey fur like a lion’s mane draped about his shoulders, held firm by a clasp of grey stone. He touched it absent-mindedly, trying to focus on his surroundings; figures moved between a table and braziers of hot coals as they talked to him and each other, arguing. Their words made no sense, vague and unfamiliar in language and tone. They agreed and squabbled and joined again in agreement; all confusion. Even as he stood, dreaming he was in the tent, the images flickered and became another place overlaying the vision; a dream within the dream; corridors of water-patterned vinyl floors and white-painted walls, doors with name plates and frosted windows, pictures and memos pinned to a board, scratches on a wall, black smears along the floor like twin trails of dragged heels. He smelled disinfectant, heard banging, a rhythmic thump, thump, thump then a single, short scream.
He itched from being in two places at once.
A voice spoke close to his ear, words carried on hot breath. ‘Gil, don’t go. We need you here.’
A hand pulled his shoulder and he flinched, ready to fend off any blow that might come. In the tent, a girl’s face came close, curious, and questioning with eyes bluer than he had ever seen, like a winter’s sky, yet strange - too far apart. She was beautiful. She reached up, touched his face.
‘Gil?’ she said, ‘We need you with us, here and now. It’s almost time.’
There was something he had to explain but could not find the words, the sensation was urgent but vague.
‘My general, should we attack?’ asked another voice, followed by a curious ticking sound.
The blue eyes stared into his. ‘We need you here.’ She had slender, pointed ears and leaves in her twiggy hair.
‘Are you an elf?’ he said.
‘He’s remembering in the wrong order,’ said a new voice. ‘It won’t work if he puts it out of sequence.’
Something chirped.
Gil opened his mouth to stutter an answer when a new voice broke through.
‘Jason? Come on! It’s time to get up.’
The vision faded. The dream retreated, quickly, as they often do. An alarm chirped in his ear. Light seeped into his eyes to the scratch of drawing curtains, the growing murmur of a kettle downstairs. His mind snatched at the dreamy image. They had called him a general. Then they were gone.
‘Jason,’ his mother said, louder, ‘Didn’t you hear the alarm? Some use that new phone is! Get up.’
He squinted at the growing sunlight, reaching over to tap ‘snooze’ on his phone. The chirping stopped. His mother’s face loomed over him.
‘Good morning, sunshine. If you’re not downstairs in ten minutes, you’ll have to get the bus. I can’t be late for work.’ As she headed for the door, she added, ‘And I won’t be feeding the serpent in the kitchen either.’
He heard footsteps descending the stairs and reluctantly threw back the cover and stretched before pulling it back over himself again. He indulged in a long, drawn yawn; like a lion, he mused. Then he forced his body up to face the day.
It was November the fifth. He had six weeks left of school before Christmas. His name was Jason Jove Gilbertson but he was known to most people simply as Gil. He was almost fifteen. He was almost top of the class. He was usually late for things, which accounted for the ‘almost.’ His mother joked that he had been born late and struggling to catch up ever since. Today was no exception if he wanted a lift to school.
He splashed water over his face and went through the pretence of a wash, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. They were a mixture of blue and brown, neither one nor the other. He recalled the vivid, watery blue of the eyes in the dream. The girl had called him a general. He laughed. Tara would find that funny. His eyes widened in realisation. Tara! He had promised to meet her at the swimming squad trials. He was going to be so late!
Grabbing his blazer and bag, he hit the stairs, thudding into the kitchen just in time to hear his mum’s car pull out from the house. She sounded two habitual beeps on the horn, a farewell and good luck, then the engine raced as she slipped a gear and the car headed away. Too late, he opened the door to an empty street and a solitary snowflake which wafted lazily before his eyes.
‘Oh, mum!’
He stepped back into the house, gathered his watch, phone, keys and then, as an afterthought, the homework books laying scattered on the counter. He stuffed them into his rucksack and checked his watch against the time on his phone. Both said 08.15. He could catch the bus if he ran. He would miss the first trial but maybe Tara was in the second. As if to needle him into action, his phone buzzed with a text message from Tara herself –
‘Gil dnt dare b L8. Counting on U!’
From the cupboard, he grabbed the box marked ‘live food’ and quickly popped the lid before retrieving a cricket and dropping it into the terrarium on the counter where his pet corn snake lay coiled. The label taped to the glass said, ‘Goldie Two.’ It was the only pet his mum would allow after the death of their dog Goldie, inherited from a friend who had died. He replaced the lids on the box and tank, grabbed a banana and ran, slamming the door behind him. His feet pounded the pavement in time with his heart pounding in his chest. Swirls of fat snowflakes milled about as he rounded the corner and raced to the bus stop. Ahead, a few figures were waiting. Great, he had not missed it yet.
Tara would be so annoyed if he let her down again. He had missed her last gala due to sleeping late – on a Saturday afternoon - and she blamed him for a poor result. Tara was not normally superstitious but they had promised each other years before to be lucky charms for one another at tests, competitions, or auditions. Years of friendship had cemented the tradition and proven, whether through good luck, coincidence, or confidence, they were totems for one another. On the few occasions they had let one another down, victory had stayed cynically beyond reach. Tara was already a swim squad member, but today’s time trials were to select the team for an international gala. Tara was desperate to go.
Gil slowed his pace, tearing open his banana and keeping an eye behind for the bus. The snow danced more heavily. He wondered idly if it would stick.
At the bus stop, Grant Costello stood holding court with his constant companion, Lee Abbott. Both were drinking from cans of their signature energy drink Super Charger Plus. As Gil approached, Costello finished his drink, knocking his head back dramatically, and discarded the empty can towards Abbott, who dodged it, but neither of them picked it up despite there being a bin only feet away. They focused momentarily on Gil then resumed their own conversation. Abbott and Costello. Some people found their friendship amusing due to some old-school movie double act. A teacher had started their friendship by sitting them together in primary school. ‘Abbott must be with Costello.’ Ironically, the close contact turned the boys into friends, to each other if not to Gil who thought Costello a nuisance and a would-be bully, and Abbott his dopey sidekick. They chatted conspiratorially as Gil approached.
Standing apart from the comedy duo was Imran Shah, another boy in Gil’s class. He was the tallest in their year, easily six feet two, already sprouting whiskers that he was teasing into a chin beard, heavy set with a bit of a belly, and a lumbering gait which made it look like he walked in slow motion. Shy, and described as ‘slow’ by some of the bad-minded children, he was known as ‘Lollipop’ for the sole reason that he was scared to cross the road alone and always waited to be escorted by the crossing guard outside the school.
Gil approached and nodded non-committedly at the boys. Imran stared into space. Abbott and Costello grinned and began play fighting, tugging one another’s bags and dancing about like boxers. Gil finished his banana and headed to the bin with the skin. Imran moved forward as the bus was approaching. Costello circled around, jostling so that Gil’s bag was knocked from his shoulder and dropped to the floor.
‘Watch it,’ snapped Gil.
Costello hesitated, considering a challenge but instead, muttered ‘Stax’ and continued his game with Abbott, dancing behind Imran as they all moved closer to the kerb. Gil heard the hiss of the brakes as the bus slowed to stop. Costello laughed then grabbed the small knitted prayer cap from Imran’s head.
‘Oi, Oi, Lollipop. That won’t keep your head warm in this blizzard!’
Abbott laughed and Costello tossed the hat into the road just as the bus stopped alongside, the hat squarely underneath its chassis. A woman across the way shook her head in obvious disapproval. Imran stamped his foot in frustration and bent down to look underneath. Gil was halfway between bin and bus. Abbott and Costello bounded on board and the driver shouted at Gil.
‘Are you getting on or what?’
Gil nodded and corrected his back-pack before a twist of wind blew snow into his eyes. He blinked and flinched sideways, noticing that Imran was squatting to reach between the wheels, lowering himself into the road. The driver had not noticed. ‘Yes. Just a minute,’ said Gil, waving for the driver to wait.
‘I’m on a time-table. Are you on or off?’ barked the driver. He was already looking to his mirrors, ready to pull back into the traffic.
Imran was on his knees, stretching his arm under the bus. Gil waved again for the bus to wait, but the driver shook his head and muttered something about ‘kids.’ He turned the wheel and the bus doors hissed shut. As the bus moved off, Gil grabbed Imran’s bag, jerking him back, but the strap slid from Imran’s shoulder and Gil slipped over. Oblivious, Imran stretched further, his fingers closing on his cap. Gil barely had time to steady himself and grab again, this time at Imran’s coat hood, clutching the fabric and noticing one perfect snowflake melt on his fist as he threw his weight backwards. In a heap, the boys hit the pavement as the bus’s wheel rolled over the spot where Imran’s arm had been.
Gil let out a long breath. ‘Don’t die today, mate.’
Imran scowled, retrieved his hat, brushed snow from it and moulded it carefully onto his head. They watched in silence as the bus rounded the next corner, the grinning faces of Abbott and Costello taunting from the rear window.
Gil’s school was not really very far away. On a fair day, with a fair wind, Gil could make it at a stroll in less than twenty minutes. Yet more haste meant less speed. Breaking into an altogether pointless sprint after the bus left him breathless. Then, a sense of foolish camaraderie led him to walk at Imran’s plodding pace even though his instinct was to at least break into a purposeful stride. He jostled Imran to hurry but traffic was constantly against them and crossing normally quiet roads took extra-long, because Lollipop stubbornly waited until there was a green pedestrian crossing light or every car drew to a halt at the zebra before he was prepared to set foot off the kerb.
‘You really do have no road sense at all, do you?’ Gil said at one point then immediately felt guilty at Imran’s hurt expression.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ Imran said.
The tone was begrudging but enough to put an end to any thoughts Gil had of abandoning him and rushing ahead. He crossed his fingers for Tara to swim well. He hoped for the best but knew the damage was already done. Whether she made the international squad or not, he was for it.
St Alexander’s Academy, known to students and teachers, past and present as Stax, had a reputation throughout the city of Liverpool. It was not for sport, drama, or the creative arts, not for languages, technical studies, practical skills, or science. Its reputation had little to do with any branch of academia or vocational work but was founded on the fact that two Premier League footballers and a soap actress had graced its halls in bygone days and gone on to earn their fortunes. All three had praised Stax for unending patience in nurturing their respective talents, recognising their potential, and helping them develop it. All three had done so without mentioning a single academic trait. In fact, St Alexander’s had produced two MP’s, five doctors and a county court judge as well as numerous local business owners, but nobody mentioned that. The school motto was esse velis, quid agis – be who you are, do what you do – but some smart-alec had over-written on the school sign at the entrance ‘nobody tells me what to do’ which had become a more popular, colloquial interpretation. The word ‘Stax’ became a monosyllabic statement of the same thing, a declaration of individuality and defiance, and much easier to spell.
Nevertheless, Stax was seen as an ordinary place which produced consistent, happy results and the occasional spark of magic.
The boys approached the school from the field behind the main block, heading towards the gym. They were fifteen minutes past registration so far. Gil knew from experience that the front gates would be closed and the main entrance monitored for latecomers by a zealous secretary. A stealth approach from the field and the side yard was their best chance of entering unnoticed and slipping upstairs to the classroom. The increasing snow flurries made the journey less enjoyable but provided a sense of cover, although the gathering snow on the ground began to soak through their shoes and track up their trouser legs. Gil pulled his blazer tight across his chest, unprepared for the weather due to his hasty departure from home. Imran had a winter jacket but left it unzipped.
‘Have you been late before?’ Gil asked, more to break the silence than in genuine interest.
Imran nodded.
‘If we get through the sports’ corridor without being spotted, we’ll be okay. No need to risk death twice in one day, eh?’
Imran did not respond.
They walked on through mounting snow, leaving faint footprints in their wake.
The main block’s three stories were ahead but there was a noticeable lack of activity so far as they could see from the field. Of course! Friday meant there would be a school assembly in the hall. The register was done after classes began. With luck, they could sneak in at the back and become lost in the crowd. Most of the teachers should be there already. There was always the chance of Caretaker Mr Honey haunting the hallways, but swimming trials meant some students might still be coming from the pool rather than classrooms; a ready-made excuse! He guiltily wondered how Tara had done and how much trouble he was in.
The side yard was empty. Somewhere in the distance, police or ambulance sirens wailed. Otherwise, the school was eerily quiet as they entered the gate and crossed to the gym. Gil peered melodramatically around the last corner before entering the building. Imran lumbered after with no attempt at stealth, as if ready to face his fate.
They were in luck; the door was unlocked and the corridor empty. They were greeted by the usual mix of school sounds; feet stampeding overhead, desks dragged squawking on tiled floors and doors slamming. Nobody was in sight but there was a sense of activity quite at odds with the silence outside. From the floor above, Gil heard a shout or a scream but it quickly ended. It was somebody messing about.
‘We might be alright here, Loll ... I mean, Imran,’ he said and beckoned the other boy to follow.
Gil had gone twenty paces along the corridor when he realised Imran had headed for the stairs instead of following. Gil raised his arms in mock astonishment and gestured for Imran to follow him, this way!
He hissed. ‘It’s Friday; they’ll be in the hall!’
Imran continued without looking at him, focusing up the stairs, out of Gil’s line of sight.
‘Imran, come on!’
The sirens grew louder, closer. Again, came the sound of a muffled scream, followed by a door slamming like a small explosion. Gil gazed up. Blue light pollution splashed across the ceiling meaning the emergency vehicles, whatever they were, were close. The blue lights, he knew, were designed to reflect from buildings to maximise notice to the public. He heard more footsteps in the corridor above him and scraping furniture. Had they missed the assembly already? Yet, there was none of the murmur of students’ voices or teachers shouting for attention.
He turned back towards where Imran had gone.
‘Imran?’
Imran reappeared slowly, backing away from the stairs, his face fixed on something out of Gil’s line of sight. He looked confused, his mouth and eyes wide open in a stupid expression of surprise. His shoulders slumped and his face turned to Gil, with an expression of utter shock as he shouted, ‘Gil! Don’t …!’
Imran did not finish. There was a bang, like a door coming through. Gil felt hot wind on his face. Lit by a flash of golden light, Imran’s head snapped back, like a tree branch snapping, and he fell and hit the floor with more speed than Gil thought possible for a boy of his size. It happened so quickly that, for a split second, there was an optical illusion; one Imran standing, gaping at Gil, another Imran lying on the floor. Then the upright spectre raised a hand to its face, flickered like a candle flame and vanished.
