Turner. Jonathan De Montfort

tea sloshed everywhere. He glanced back. James whirled in a blur, taking Richard to the floor with a leg sweep, and then cradled his chin in the palm of his hand.

      ‘Now, why are you being cheeky?’ he said as if to a small child.

      Richard grunted. ‘I told you, I’m feeling good.’

      ‘This is more than just feeling good. What happened at school?’

      ‘Nothing. Just a normal day.’

      ‘Okay, have it your way.’ James used his first and second fingers to play the tom-toms on Richard’s chin. ‘Bop-di bop-di bop.’

      ‘Okay, okay, I met a girl.’

      The hand lifted. ‘Aha, I knew it. What’s her name?’

      ‘Oh, come on.’

      The fingers wiggled, ready to play the tom-toms again.

      ‘Fi.’

      ‘Fi? What’s her full name?’

      ‘Felicity.’

      ‘Felicity . . .?’ James asked as if confirming a message on a bad telephone line. ‘Ah wait, that’s Andrew’s sister.’ In his best Austin Powers voice, he added, ‘Felicity Shagwell.’ He released Richard and rose to his feet.

      Richard rolled up from the floor. ‘What?’

      ‘Just a little joke I have with Andrew. Felicity, eh? She’s quite attractive.’

      Hey, don’t talk like that about my girlf— ‘She’s also a nice person.’

      ‘And that is, of course, the most important thing.’ James sat down and began eating again as if nothing had happened, as if the prior five minutes had been as inconsequential as a fly landing on the wall.

      Richard slid into a chair across the table with his own plate. ‘So here’s something I thought of today.’

      James raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Whatever happened to our uncle?’

      ‘Uncle? What are you talking about? Dad’s an only child.’

      ‘He came with us to Devon at least once, I’m certain. But I can’t remember his name, and I can’t remember seeing him at all since—’

      Since Mum left. Oh.

      James fixed his gaze upon his brother. ‘Honestly, bruv, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

      He’s lying. But why?

      The first month at school for Richard—now known everywhere as Hero—passed in a blur. Except, of course, for this particular moment. This endless, torturous moment. His eyes skimmed the text before him.

      We’ve been learning this crap for weeks now. Look at this one: Romeo and Juliet, supposedly a romantic tragedy. The only tragic thing about this is their stupidity. What kind of plan is poisoning yourself? Perhaps they should’ve discussed it. It’s just too contrived. It should be titled People Being Stupid—but then again, isn’t that how people always behave?

      He looked up from the book and surreptitiously studied his classmates. Ben, Tom, Charlotte, Oliver, Angelina. And Fi. Some of them were new friends; some had come with him from his old school. But thanks to all of them, that out-of-place feeling he’d had on day one, standing in front of the class with water dripping from his nose, was a fading nightmare. Luckily, kids have short memories.

      He realised with a start he was staring at Fi, who was returning his gaze. She was wearing that sweet smile that made him feel as if he’d just drunk the richest, thickest, creamiest cup of hot chocolate he’d ever known on a cold winter’s night by the fire. He felt gooey, like the remnants at the bottom of the cup.

      The bell rang for lunchtime.

      He had zipped himself up and was washing his hands in the washroom when both the basin and his hands began to seem further and further away. His skin turned cold, and goosebumps bristled against his clothes.

      ‘Hero,’ a voice whispered.

      He glanced in the mirror, but no one was there. He turned slowly, water dripping from his hands onto his shoes. Nobody.

      ‘Do the right thing.’

      ‘Who’s there?’ he called out.

      Nobody answered.

      ‘Come on, stop messing around.’

      He walked across to the stalls, three in total. He checked the first one. Nobody. Hesitantly, he moved on to the second and pushed open the door. Nothing. He felt his heart beating in his neck. His head was sweltering; a thin film of sweat formed on his face.

      Slowly, he moved towards the final stall. Standing to one side, fully expecting some kind of prank to explode in his face, he opened the door. His muscles tensed.

      Empty.

      ‘We are the Light,’ the voice murmured from behind him.

      He spun around, but no one was there. Sweat dripped down his face, which was burning like a log fire in winter. He walked back to the basin, where the tap was still running, and splashed some water on his face.

      ‘Join us.’ The voice was right next to his ear, as clear and real as a cloudless night sky.

      He felt a hand on his shoulder and froze, blinking the water out of his eyes. There was a face, another face, next to his in the mirror.

      A flash of fear hammered down his spine and into his legs. He ducked as if he were trying to smash through the floor like a mole burrowing underground to escape a predator.

      ‘What’re you doing?’

      It was Tom, his childhood friend who’d migrated with him to this school.

      ‘Dammit, Tom,’ he exclaimed in relief. ‘What’re you doing sneaking up on me like that? I nearly shat my pants.’

      ‘That would’ve been hilarious.’ Tom sniggered.

      The heat in his face was now more from the rising tide of anger. ‘And what’s with the whole “do the right thing” and “we are the Light”?’

      ‘What’re you talking about? I just asked if you wanted to join us.’

      What?

      ‘You know, playing football. In the yard.’

      He snatched a couple of paper towels and buried his face to cover his confusion. ‘Sure, why not? Let me just dry myself off.’

      ‘Come on, we’ll miss it,’ Tom said.

      ‘Okay, okay.’

      He jogged out behind Tom, tossing the used paper towels in the bin as he passed.

      ‘Hey, Hero.’ Fi used that sing-song voice that only teenage girls do, mimicking their favourite film star’s sexy tone but getting it slightly wrong. ‘What’re you doing?’

      ‘We’re just going to play football in the yard,’ he said.

      ‘Oh.’ She deflated like a balloon with a slow puncture. ‘It’s just, I don’t have anyone to have lunch with, and I thought—’

      ‘Ah. I see. Well . . .’

      He glanced at Tom. On some unheard channel of male tele­pathy, a message was transferred, one that all post-pubescent males understood.

      Tom gave them a toothy grin. ‘Hero, to be honest, I think we’ve already got too many people. You’d be doing us a favour.’

      ‘Okay, well, have a good game.’ He turned to Fi. ‘Shall we?’

      She shifted her books to the other side and fell in beside him. ‘We shall.’

      Chapter 4

      James

      I