“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.
I lower my fork. “What?”
He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.
“Asshole!” I snap. Dervish has a sick sense of humour.
I get back to wolfing down my breakfast and Dervish tucks into his, not caring that the scrambled eggs are cold. We’re an odd couple, a big lump of a teenager like me playing nursemaid to a balding, mentally disturbed adult like Dervish. And yeah, there are nights when he really frightens me, when I feel like I can’t take it any more, when I cry. It’s not fair. Dervish fought the good fight and won. That should have been the end of it. Happy ever after.
But stories don’t end. They continue as long as you’re alive. You just have to get on with things. Turn the page, start a new chapter, find out what’s in store for you next, and keep your fingers crossed that it’s not too awful. Even if you know in your heart and soul that it most probably will be.
PRAY AT HIM
→ School was strange when I first went back. I’d spent months outside the system, first in the asylum, then in the mansion with Dervish. It took me a while to find my feet. For the first couple of terms I didn’t really speak to anybody except Bill-E and the school counsellor, Mr Mauch, better known as Misery Mauch because of his long face. I’d always been popular at my old school, lots of friends, active in several sports teams, Mr Cool.
All that changed at Carcery Vale. I was shy, unsure of myself, reluctant to get involved in conversations or commit to after-school events. On top of the hell I’d been through, there was Dervish to consider. He needed me at home. I became an anonymous kid, one who spent a lot of time by himself or with a similarly awkward friend (step forward Bill-E Spleen).
Things are different now. I’ve come out of my shell a bit. I’m more like the old me, not quiet in class or afraid to speak to other kids. I’ve always been bigger than most people my age. In the old days I was a show off and used my bulk to command respect. At the Vale I kept my head bent, shoulders hunched, trying to suck my frame in to make myself seem smaller.
Not any more. I’m no longer Mr Flash, but I’m not hiding now. I don’t feel that I have to.
I’ve made new friends. Charlie Rall, Robbie McCarthy, Mary Hayes. And Loch Gossel. Loch’s big, not as massive as me, but closer to my size than anybody else. He wrestles a lot — real wrestling, not the showbiz stuff you see on TV. He’s been trying to get me to join his team since I started school. I resisted for a long time, but now I’m thinking of giving it a go.
Loch also has a younger sister, Reni. She’s pretty cute, even if she does have a nose that would put Gonzo to shame! I stare at her a lot and sometimes she makes eyes back. I think she’d go out with me if I asked. I haven’t. Not yet. But soon… maybe… if I can work up the nerve.
→ The end of a typical school day. Yawning through classes, desperate for lunch-time so I could hang out with my friends and chat about movies, music, TV, computer games, whatever. Bill-E joined us for some of it. I don’t spend as much time with Bill-E as I used to. He doesn’t fit in with my new friends — they think he’s geekish. They don’t slag him off when I’m around, but I know they do when I’m not. I feel bad about that and try to help Bill-E relax so they can see his real side. But he gets nervous around the others, acts differently, becomes the butt of their jokes.
Thinking about Bill-E as I walk home. I don’t want us to stop being friends. He’s my brother and he was really good to me when I first moved here. But it’s difficult because I don’t want to lose my new friends either. Guess I’ll just have to work harder to make him feel like part of the group. Try and be like one of those TV kids who always solve their problems by the end of each show.
Dervish is sitting on the stairs when I let myself in. I’m dripping wet — it’s been pouring for the last couple of hours. Normally, when the weather’s bad, he picks me up on his motorbike. When there was no sign of him today, I figured his mood hadn’t improved since breakfast. I was right. He’s as blank as he was this morning, staring off into space, not registering me until I’m right in front of him.
“Dervish! Hey, Derveeshio! Earth to Dervish! Are you reading me, captain?”
He blinks, frowns as if he doesn’t know who I am, then smiles. “Grubbs. You’re alive. I thought…” His expression clears. “Sorry. I was miles away.”
I sit beside him. “Bad day?”
“Can’t remember,” he replies. “Why are you home early?” I hold up my watch and tap it. Dervish reads the time and sighs. “I’m losing it, Grubbs.”
My insides tighten, but I don’t let Dervish see my fear. “Losing what — your sanity? You can’t lose what you never had.”
“My grip.” Dervish looks down at his feet, bare and dirty. “I wasn’t like this before. I wasn’t this distracted and empty. Was I?” He looks at me pleadingly.
“You’ve been through hell, Derv,” I tell him quietly. “You can’t expect to recover without a few hiccups.”
“I know. But I wasn’t this way, right? Some days I can’t remember. I feel like it’s always been like this.”
“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.”
“All things must pass,” Dervish mutters. Then he looks at me sideways, his cool blue eyes coming into focus. “Why are you wet?”
“Took a bath. Forgot to strip.” I rap his forehead with my knuckles, then point to the windows and the rain battering the panes. “Numbnuts.”
“Oh,” Dervish says. “I should have picked you up.”
“No worries.” I rise and stretch, dripping steadily. “I’m going up to shower and change into dry clothes. I’ll stick this lot in to wash. Anything you want me to add?” I did all the jobs around the house when Dervish was a vegetable. Hard to break the habit.
“No, I don’t think so. I…” Dervish stares at his left hand. There’s a black mark on it, a small ‘d’. “There was something I meant to tell you. What…?” He clicks his fingers. “I had a phone call, a follow-up to some e-mails I’ve been getting recently. Ever heard of someone called Davida Haym?”
“No, can’t say…” I pause. “Hold on. Not David A Haym, the movie producer?”
“That’s her.”
“I thought that was a guy.”
“Nope. She uses David A on her movies, but it’s Davida. You know about her?”
“Sure. She makes horror movies. Zombie Zest. Witches Weird. Night Mayors — that’s, like, Nightmares, only two words. It’s about evil mayors who band together to set up a meat production plant, except the meat they process is human flesh.”
“Win many Oscars?” Dervish asks.
“Swept the board,” I chuckle. “I can’t believe she’s a woman. I always thought… But what about her? I didn’t think you were into horror flicks.”
“She phoned me earlier.”
I do a double-take. “David A Haym called you?”
“Davida Haym. Yes.” Dervish squints at me. “Have I grown a second head?”
“Hell, it’s David A Haym, Dervish! That’s like saying Steven Spielberg was on the line, or George Lucas. OK, not as big as those, but still…”
“I didn’t know she was famous,”