Evil Star

THE NEW BOY

It was the same dream as always.

Matt Freeman was standing on a pinnacle of black rock that seemed to have sprouted out of the ground like something poisonous. He was high up, alone, surrounded on all sides by a sea as dead as anything he had ever seen. The waves rolled in like oil, and although the wind blew all around him and the sea spray stung his eyes, he felt nothing

… not even the cold. Somehow he knew that this was a place where the sun never rose or set. He wondered if he had died.

He turned and looked towards the shoreline, knowing that he would see the other four waiting for him, separated by a stretch of water half a mile wide and many miles deep. They were always there. Three boys and a girl. About his age. Waiting for him to make the crossing and join them.

But this time it was different. One of the boys had somehow found a vessel to carry him across the water. It was a long, narrow boat made of reeds that had been woven together with a prow, shaped like the head of a wildcat, rising up at the front. The boat looked flimsy. Matt could see the waves battering it, trying to send it back. But the boy was rowing with strong, rhythmic strokes. He was cutting across the water, getting closer by the minute, and now Matt could make out some of his features: brown skin, dark eyes, long, black, very straight hair. He was wearing torn jeans and a loose shirt with a hole in one of the elbows.

Matt felt a surge of hope. In a few minutes the boat would reach the island and if he could just find a way down he would at last be able to escape. He ran to the edge of the rock and that was when he saw it, reflected in the inky surface of the water. A bird of some sort. Its shape rippled – distorted by the waves – and he was unable to make out what it was. It seemed to have enormous wings, white feathers and a long, snake-like neck. A swan! Apart from the three boys and the girl, it was the only living thing that Matt had seen in this nightmare world and he looked up, expecting it to skim overhead on its way inland.

The swan was huge, the size of a plane. Matt screamed out a warning. The creature was hideous, its eyes blazing yellow, its claws reaching down to grab hold of the water, pulling it up like a curtain behind it. At that moment, its beak – bright orange – opened and it let out an ear-splitting cry. There was an answering crash of thunder and Matt was beaten to his knees as it flew overhead, its wings pounding at him, the sound of its scream exploding in his ears. The curtain of water fell, a tidal wave that smothered the rock, the shore, the entire sea. Matt felt it crash down on him. He opened his mouth to scream…

…and woke up, gasping for breath, in bed, in his little attic room with the first light of day seeping in through the open window.

Matt did what he always did when he began the day like this. He checked the time on the clock next to his bed: half past six. Then he looked around him, reassuring himself that he was in his bedroom, high up in the flat in York, where he had been living for the past five weeks. One by one, he ticked the items off. There were his school books, piled up on the desk. His uniform was hanging over the back of a chair. His eyes travelled over the posters on the wall: a couple of Arsenal players and a film poster from War of the Worlds. His PlayStation was on the floor in the corner. The room was a mess. But it was his room. It was exactly how it should be. Everything was all right. He was back.

He lay in bed, half awake and half asleep, listening to the early morning traffic that started with the milk float wheezing past the front door and gradually built up with delivery vans and early morning commuters. At seven o’clock he heard Richard’s alarm go off in the room downstairs. Richard Cole was the journalist who owned this flat. Matt heard him get out of bed and pad into the bathroom. There was a hiss of water as the shower came on. It told Matt that it was time he started getting ready too. He threw back the covers and stood up.

For a moment he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the room. A fourteen-year-old boy wearing a grey T-shirt and boxers. Black hair. He had always kept it short but recently he had allowed it to grow and it was untidy, with no parting. Blue eyes. Matt was in good shape, with square shoulders and well-defined muscles. He was growing fast. Richard had been careful to buy him school clothes that were one size up, but as he reached out and pulled on his trousers, Matt reflected that it wouldn’t be long before they were too short.

Half an hour later, dressed for school and carrying a bag of books, he came into the kitchen. Richard was already there, stacking up the dishes that had been left out the night before. He looked as if he hadn’t had any sleep at all. His clothes were crumpled and although he’d been in the shower, he hadn’t shaved. His fair hair was still wet and his eyes were half-closed.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

“What is there?”

Richard swallowed a yawn. “Well, there’s no bread and no eggs.” He opened a cupboard and looked inside. “We’ve got some corn flakes but that’s not much use.”

“Don’t we have any milk?”

Richard took a carton of milk out of the fridge, sniffed it and dumped it in the sink. “It’s off,” he announced. He held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I know, I know. I said I’d get some. But I forgot.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.” Richard suddenly lashed out, slamming the fridge door. He was angry with himself. “I’m meant to be looking after you…”

Matt sat down at the table. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s mine.”

“Matt…” Richard began.

“No. We might as well admit it. This isn’t really working, is it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. You don’t really want me here. The truth is, you don’t even want to stay in York. I don’t mind, Richard. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to have someone like me hanging around either.”

Richard looked at his watch. “We can’t talk about this now,” he said. “You’re going to be late for school.”

“I don’t want to go to school,” Matt replied. “I’ve been thinking about it.” He took a deep breath. “I want to go back on the LEAF Project” Richard stared. “Are you crazy?”

LEAF stood for Liberty and Education Achieved through Fostering. It was a government programme that had been designed for delinquents, and Matt had been part of it when he and Richard met.

“I just think it would be easier,” he said.

“The last time you joined the LEAF Project, they sent you to a coven of witches. What do you think it’ll be next time? Vampires, perhaps. Or maybe you’ll end up with a family of cannibals.”

“Maybe I’ll get an ordinary family that’ll look after me.”

“I can look after you.”

“You can’t even look after yourself!” Matt hadn’t meant to say it but the words had just slipped out. “You’re working in Leeds now,” he went on. “You’re always in the car. That’s why there’s never any food in the house. And you’re worn out! You’re only staying here because of me. It’s not fair.”

It was true. Richard had lost his job at the Greater Malling Gazette, but after a couple of weeks he had managed to find work on another newspaper, The Gipton Echo, just outside Leeds. It wasn’t a lot better. He was still writing about local businesses. The day before he had taken in a new fish restaurant, a rubbish disposal amenity and a geriatric hospital that was threatened with closure. Chips, tips and hips as he put it. Matt knew that he was also working on a book about their adventures together – the events that had led to the destruction of the nuclear power station known as Omega One and the disappearance of an entire Yorkshire village. But he hadn’t been able to sell the story to the press. Why should publishers be any different?

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” Richard said. “It’s too early. Let’s meet this evening. I won’t be in late for once, and we can go out for dinner if you like. Or I can get a takeaway.”

“Yeah. All right. Whatever.” Matt gathered up his books.

“What about breakfast?”

“I’ll go to McDonald’s.”

Forrest Hill was a private school, in the middle of nowhere, halfway between York and Harrogate. And although Matt hadn’t said as much, it was the main reason he had begun to think about leaving the north of England. He hated it there and although the summer holidays weren’t far off, he wasn’t sure he could wait that long.

From the outside it was attractive enough. There was a quadrangle – an old courtyard with arches and outside staircases – and next to it a chapel complete with stained glass and gargoyles. Some parts of the school were three hundred years old and looked it, but in recent times the governors had managed to attract more money and had invested it in new buildings. There was a theatre, a science block and a barn-sized library on two floors. All of these had been built in the last two or three years.

The school had its own tennis courts, swimming pool and playing fields. It was situated in a sort of basin in the countryside, with the roads sloping steeply down from all directions. The first time Matt had seen it, he had thought he was being driven into a university campus. It was only when he saw the boys, aged thirteen to eighteen, walking to classes in their smart blue jackets and grey trousers that he realized that it was just a secondary school.

It was certainly a world apart from St Edmund’s, the comprehensive he had gone to in Ipswich. Matt didn’t know where to begin when he compared the two. Everything was so neat and tidy here. There was no smell of chips, no graffiti, no flaking paintwork or goalposts with the net hanging in rags. There were more than a thousand books in the library and all the computers in the DT block were state of the art. Even the uniform made a huge difference. Putting it on for the first time, Matt felt as if something had been taken away from him. The jacket weighed down his shoulders and cut underneath his arms. The tie, with its green and grey stripes, was ridiculous. He didn’t want to be a businessman, so why was he dressing up as one? When he looked in the mirror, it was as if he was seeing someone else.

It wasn’t Richard who had come up with the idea of sending him here. The Nexus – the mysterious organization that had taken over his life – had suggested it. Matt had done little work for two years. He was behind in every subject. Sending him to a new school in the middle of the summer term would cause problems wherever he went. But a private school wouldn’t ask too many questions and might be able to look after his particular needs. The Nexus was paying. It seemed like a good idea.

But it had gone wrong almost from the start.

Most of the teachers at Forrest Hill were all right, but it was the ones who weren’t who really made themselves felt. It seemed to take Matt only days to make permanent enemies of Mr King, who taught English, and Mr O’Shaughnessy who doubled as both French teacher and assistant headmaster. Both these men were in their thirties but behaved as if they were much older. On the first day, Mr King had given Matt a dressing down for chewing gum in the quadrangle. On the second, it had been Mr O’Shaughnessy who had given him a high-pitched, ten-minute lecture for an untucked shirt. After that, both of them seemed to have taken every opportunity to pick on him.

But if anything, it was the other boys at the school who were the real problem. Matt was a survivor. There had been some real bullies at St Edmund’s, including one or two who seemed to take a real pleasure in hurting anyone who was small, hard-working or just different from them. He had known it would take time to make friends in a new school, especially with boys so unlike himself. But even so, he had been surprised by how few of them had been prepared to give him a chance.

Of course, they all knew each other. The other fourteen-year-olds at Forrest Hill were at the end of their second year and they’d already made their friendships. A pattern of life had been established and, as a newcomer, Matt knew that he was intruding. Worse than that, he had come from a completely different world. A comprehensive school and one that wasn’t anywhere near Yorkshire. Very few of the boys were snobs, but they were still suspicious about him and one boy in particular seemed determined to give him a hard time.

His name was Gavin Taylor. He was in most of the same classes as Matt. And he controlled his entire year.

Gavin wasn’t physically big. He was slim with a turned-up nose and blond, slightly greasy hair that hung down to his collar. He made a point of ensuring that his tie was never straight, slouching around with his hands in his pockets and an attitude that warned everyone – staff or student – to keep their distance. There was an arrogance to him that Matt could sense a hundred yards away. It was said that he was one of the richest boys in the school. His father had an Internet company selling second-hand cars throughout Britain. And he had four or five friends who were big. They followed him round the school like bit-part villains in a Quentin Tarantino film.

It was Gavin who had decided that Matt was bad news. It wasn’t what he knew about the new arrival that offended him; it was what he didn’t. Matt had come out of nowhere at the end of the school year. He hadn’t been to a prep school and he wouldn’t explain why he had left his comprehensive, what had happened to his parents or what he had been doing for the past two months. Gavin had taunted and teased Matt for the first few weeks, trying to make him drop his guard. The fact that Matt wasn’t scared of him and refused to tell him anything only angered him all the more.

But then something happened that made the whole situation infinitely worse. Somehow, Gavin overheard the school secretary talking on the phone in her office. And that was how he learnt that Matt had been in trouble with the police. He’d spent time in a secure children’s home or something similar. And he had no money. Some sort of charity, an organization in London, had picked up the tab to send him here. Within minutes, the story had spread all around the school and from that moment, Matt had been doomed. He was the new boy. The charity case. A loser. He wasn’t part of the school and never would be.

Maybe there were boys there who would have been more generous, but they were too nervous of Gavin Taylor and so Matt found himself virtually friendless. He hadn’t told Richard any of this. Matt had never been the sort of person to complain. When his parents had died, when he had been sent to live with Gwenda Davis, even when he had been working as a virtual slave at Hive Hall, he had tried to build a wall around himself. But each day was becoming harder to endure. He was certain that sooner or later, he would snap.

As usual, the bus dropped him off at half past eight. The day always began with an assembly in the chapel, a hymn sung tunelessly by six hundred and fifty schoolboys who were only half awake and a brief address from the headmaster or one of the teachers. Matt kept his head down. He thought about what he had said to Richard that morning. He really was determined to go. He’d had enough.

The first two lessons weren’t too bad. The maths and history teachers were young and sympathetic and didn’t allow the other boys in the class to pick on him. Matt spent morning break in the library, trying to catch up with his homework. After that he had forty-five minutes with the special needs teacher who was trying to help him with his spelling and grammar. But the last lesson before lunch was English and Mr King was in a bad mood.

“Freeman, will you please stand up!”

Matt got warily to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gavin nudge another boy and grin. He made sure his own face gave nothing away.

Mr King walked towards him. The English teacher was losing his hair. He combed the ginger strands from one side of his head to the other, but the curve of his skull still showed through. He was holding a dog-eared copy of Oliver Twist, the book they were reading in class. He also had a pile of exercise books.

“Did you read the chapters that I set you in Oliver Twist?” he asked.

“I tried to,” Matt said. He liked the characters in the story but he found some of the language old-fashioned and difficult to follow. Why did Charles Dickens have to use so much description?

“You tried to?” Mr King sneered at him. “I think what you mean is, you didn’t.”

“I did…” Matt began.

“Don’t interrupt me, Freeman. Your essay was the worst in the class. You scored a pathetic two out of twenty. You can’t even spell Fagin correctly! F-A-Y-G-I-N! There is no Y in Fagin, Freeman. If you’d read the chapters, you’d know that.”

Gavin giggled out loud and, despite himself, Matt felt his cheeks glowing red.

“You will read the chapters again and you will do the test again and in future, I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me. Now sit down.” He threw Matt’s exercise book onto the desk as if it were something he had found in the gutter.

The lesson dragged on until the lunchtime bell. There would be games that afternoon. Matt should have enjoyed that, as he was fit and fast on his feet. But he was never part of the team on the sports field either. They were playing cricket this term and Matt hadn’t been surprised when he had been sent to field at deep cover, as far away from everyone else as possible.

The school ate lunch in one of the modern buildings. There was a self-service buffet with a choice of hot or cold food and fifty long tables arranged in lines beneath a huge modern chandelier. The boys were allowed to sit where they wanted, but normally each year stuck together. The clatter of knives and forks and the clamour of so many voices echoed all around. Everyone ate at the same time and the huge glass windows seemed to trap the sound and bounce it back and forth.

Matt was hungry. He had been late for the school bus and hadn’t had time to buy anything at McDonald’s. And there hadn’t been much to eat in Richard’s flat the night before. The food was the one thing at Forrest Hill that he did like and he helped himself to a healthy lunch of ham, salad, ice cream and fruit juice. Carrying his tray, he looked for somewhere to sit. After five weeks at the school, he had lost hope of anyone inviting him to join them.

He saw an empty space and made for it. With the tray in front of him, he didn’t see the foot that was stretched out in his path. The next thing he knew, he had been tripped. Helplessly, he pitched forward. The tray, two plates, a glass, his knife, fork and spoon left his hands and hit the floor with a deafening crash. Matt followed them. Unable to stop himself, he fell on top of what was meant to be his lunch. The entire room fell silent. Even before he looked up, Matt knew that everyone was staring at him.

It hadn’t been Gavin Taylor who had tripped him up. It was one of his friends. But Matt had no doubt that it had been Gavin’s idea. He could see the other boy a few tables away, standing up with a glass in one hand, a stupid smile spreading across his face. Matt got to his knees. Ice cream was dripping from his shirt. He was surrounded by pieces of salad, kneeling in a puddle of fruit juice.

And then Gavin laughed.

It was a cue for the rest of the school to join in. It seemed to Matt that just about the entire room – the entire school – was laughing at him. He saw Mr O’Shaughnessy making his way towards him. Why did the assistant headmaster have to be on lunch duty that day?

“Why do you have to be so clumsy, Freeman?” The words seemed to be coming from a long way away. They echoed in Matt’s ears. “Are you all right?”

Matt looked up. Gavin was pointing at him. He could feel the anger coursing through him – and not just anger. Something else. He couldn’t have stopped it, even if he had tried to. It was as if he had become a channel. There were flames flowing through him. He could actually smell the burning.

The chandelier exploded.

It was an ugly thing, a tangle of steel arms and light bulbs that some architect must have thought would suit the room. And it was directly over Gavin Taylor. Now, as Matt stared, the bulbs shattered, one after another, each one bursting apart with the sound of a pistol shot. Glass showered down, smashing onto the tables. Gavin looked up and cried out as a piece of glass hit him in the face. More glass rained down on him. A few wisps of smoke rose to the ceiling. Nobody was laughing any more. The entire room was silent.

Then the glass that Gavin was holding exploded too. It simply blew itself apart in his hand. He screamed. His palm had been cut open. Gavin looked at Matt, then at his hand. His mouth opened but it seemed to take him for ever to find the words.

“It was him!” he shouted. “He did it!” His whole body was trembling.

The assistant headmaster stared helplessly. He looked bewildered, unsure what to do. This sort of thing had never happened before. It was beyond his experience.

“It was him!” Gavin insisted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr O’Shaughnessy said. “I saw what happened. Freeman was nowhere near you.”

Gavin Taylor had gone pale. It might have been the pain, the sight of his own blood welling out of the cut in his hand. But Matt knew that it was more than that. He was terrified.

Mr O’Shaughnessy tried to take charge. “Someone get the matron,” he snapped. “And we’d better clear the room. There’s glass everywhere…”

People were already moving. They didn’t know what had happened. They just wanted to get out of the dining hall before the whole ceiling came down. They had forgotten Matt for the moment but if any of them had looked for him they would have seen that he was no longer there.