Turner. Jonathan De Montfort

      

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      First published in the UK by De Montfort Literature Ltd, 2018

      This edition published in the UK by De Montfort Literature Ltd, 2018

      Copyright © Jonathan de Montfort, 2018

      The right of Jonathan de Montfort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him.

      ISBN 978-1-912770-02-1

      A CIP catalogue record is available at the British Library

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      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitious leave. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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      To my mum and my brother for supporting me

      in my many hours of need whilst writing this.

      To Sarah for changing my path and so without whom

      this book would never have been finished.

      To Fi and Catherine, whose real names I shall take to

      the grave, for your inadvertent inspiration to this story.

      And finally

      To ‘D’ for teaching me the meaning of pure love.

      Chapter 1

      Richard

      The rush—that’s what he would call it. The rush of incandescent energy into the core of his being, that tangible yet undefinable place so central to who he was.

      He was standing at the crest of a gargantuan mountain, the world crouched beneath his feet. Everest? Energy spiralled out of his core through his arms and into his hands, which tingled as if he were holding crystalline globes of energy. Their weight, their power overwhelmed him.

      He opened his arms like a cross, allowing energy to stream off his body into the night sky like an inverted aurora borealis. It felt like . . . lightning? He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and opened his mouth in exhilaration; he wanted to scream to set free such prodigious power.

      If I could just reach up, I could touch . . .

      Anything was possible.

      Someone was speaking to him. He opened his eyes.

      He was back in his bedroom, staring up at a stain next to the sleek light fixture where he had flattened a huge moth during the summer. It was imprisoned by pale lines creeping across the ceil- ing; the morning light had found the tiniest weakness in the black wall of the curtains and was pushing into the room as far as it dared.

      Just a dream.

      ‘We are the Light,’ a voice whispered into his ear. ‘Join us.’

      He sat up with a start. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

      It was just the voices of his dream continuing as he woke, but they were fading, fading. Such madness in my sleep, such serenity in reality. How often it is the other way around. He took a deep breath, relieved to be back to normality. Whatever that was.

      ‘Time to get up, son.’ Dad’s disembodied head appeared from around the door. ‘Big day today.’

      Richard gathered himself into the present and reluctantly swung his feet out of bed.

      We are the Light.

      He glanced back towards the bed. ‘Um, Dad?’

      No answer. He must already be downstairs.

      Well, it wouldn’t hurt just to take a look. He got down on his knees and peered under the bed.

      ‘What’re you doing, you tart?’ James towered in the doorway. He was four years older and a full two feet taller than his brother.

      Richard thought quickly, then produced a mischievous grin. ‘Looking for monsters, of course. Why? What did you think I was doing?’

      If he knew what I really was looking for, it would feed his comedic ‘genius’ for a lifetime.

      ‘You’re weird, you are,’ he retorted. ‘A word of advice—tone that down for your first day. Better get a move on.’

      Phew, got away with it—just.

      He thought about it over and over in the shower. He’d dreamed about the rush twice in the past week alone, leaving him tousled but energized the next morning. But the voice was new, and he wasn’t certain it was a welcome addition. We are the Light. Was that a ‘what’ or a ‘who’? He wrung his hands, twisting his skin painfully, as the idea strengthened like the morning light outside.

      Back in his room, he faced his new uniform, a black blazer and trousers with a white shirt, crisp as a newly painted wall—thank God James had learned the dark art of ironing from Mum. The blazer had a badge on it with some innocuous Latin phrase underneath. He fumbled with the black-and-white tie. The knot reminded him of that terrible feeling he always got in his stomach when he worried about what lay ahead. Today, it was new teachers, new subjects, new everything. He had the hopeless sense that the world was changing and there was nothing he could do but put his head down and be a good little lamb.

      He looked in the mirror at the lopsided tie. It would have to do. Will everyone hate me? Or worse, will they think I’m a nerd?

      And girls—he’d never gone to school with girls before. The truth he’d never told his parents was that this was the main reason he’d picked this school over the others—well, that and the fact that James went there too. Somehow, just knowing his brother was nearby soothed him like a cool drink on a summer’s day.

      Too bad summer was over.

      ‘Come on, tart, get it together,’ James shouted as he rushed past on the way to breakfast.

      Richard groaned, but knew he couldn’t put the day off any longer. Again, his stomach churned. Why did people always use the word ‘butterflies’ when ‘knot’ was so much closer to the truth?

      ‘Morning, son.’

      Dad was already sitting at the glass-topped table in the centre of the kitchen, deep in his morning routine of reading the Financial Times and drinking his first brew of the day. As usual, he wore a blue pinstriped suit with a white shirt and patterned tie. The air was pungent with the greasy, sweet-and-sour smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee.

      Richard came around the table and dropped his things at the foot of his chair.

      Ah yes, Dad and