But even more than the demon master, I worry about changing. Every time a full moon comes I sleep nervously — if at all — tossing and turning, imagining the worst, checking under my nails first thing in the morning, examining my teeth and eyes in the mirror.
I’ve memorised the names and numbers of the Lambs — the Grady executioners. If I have to call them one day, I pray that I have the strength to do it.
→ The morning after a full moon. Fourteen months since my battle with Lord Loss. A crisp, sun-crowned morning. Stretching. Yawning. Thinking about school. Also about a girl — Reni Gossel. I like Reni. Very cute. And she’s been giving me the sort of looks which make me think she maybe thinks I’m cute too. Wondering if it’s time to hold that party Bill-E’s been pressing for.
My cheeks feel sticky. Curious, I rub a few fingers over them. They come away wet — and red!
My head flares. Heart pounds. Stomach clenches. Thoughts of school and Reni forgotten. I fall out of bed. Desperately check under my nails — dirty with earth and blood. Hairs stuck to my hands and around my mouth.
Moaning. Slapping off the hairs.
I reel out of the room and down the stairs, almost falling and breaking my neck. Head spinning. Lights exploding within my brain. Vomit rising in my throat. Telephone numbers flash across my eyes. And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.
Into the kitchen. Dervish is sitting at the table, slowly spooning cornflakes into his mouth. I turn in circles, wringing my hands, tearing at my hair. My eyes fix on the telephone hanging from the wall. I stop panicking. Calm falls on me like a sudden cold rainfall. I know what I must do. Best to do it now, as soon as possible, before I lose my nerve. Call the executioners. Give myself over to the Lambs. Arrange for others to take care of Dervish. Bid this world farewell.
I start towards the phone, resigned to my fate.
A solemn voice behind me — “Grubbs.”
I turn slowly, reluctantly, for some reason expecting to see Lord Loss. But there’s only Dervish. He’s holding up a tin of red paint, a small pot of earth, and a tatty woollen scarf which has been ripped into hairy fragments.
“The look on your face!” my uncle says.
And grins.
For:
Bas — thief of my heart
OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:
Atilla "the killah" Kovacs
Liam "mac webby" Fitzgerald
Mary "the organiser" Byrne
Public Editor #1:
Stella "the eliminator" Paskins
Guard Duty:
the Christopher Little constabulary
Contents
Into the Light
Fugitives
The Witch
Marbles
Ding Dong
Kidnap
Walking on Water
Demons and Disciples
Opening Windows
Frying Pan
Fire
Adrift
Punks
The Monster Mash
The Reluctant Disciple
Searching
Hell-Child
Fly on the Wall
At Home with Lord Loss
The Challenge
Amazeing
Marbleous
Kernel in the Sky with Demons
Thieves
The True Thief
The Theft
Goodbyes
Home Alonely
Kah-Gash
INTO THE LIGHT
→ People think I’m crazy because I see lights. I’ve seen them all my life. Strange, multicoloured patches of light swirling through the air. The patches are different sizes, some as small as a coin, others as big as a cereal box. All sorts of shapes — octagons, triangles, decagons. Some have thirty or forty sides. I don’t know the name for a forty-sided shape. Quadradecagon?
No circles. All of the patches have at least two straight edges. There are a few with curves or semi-circular bulges, but not many.
Every colour imaginable. Some shine brightly, others glow dully. Occasionally a few of the lights pulse, but normally they just hang there, glowing.
When I was younger I didn’t know the lights were strange. I thought everybody saw them. I described them to Mum and Dad, but they thought I was playing a game, seeking attention. It was only when I started school and spoke about the lights in class that it became an issue. My teacher, Miss Tyacke, saw that I wasn’t making up stories, that I really believed in the lights.
Miss Tyacke called Mum in. Suggested they took me to somebody better qualified to understand what the lights signified. But Mum’s never had much time for psychiatrists. She thinks the brain can take care of itself. She asked me to stop mentioning the lights at school, but otherwise she wasn’t concerned.
So I stopped talking about the lights, but the damage had already been done. Word spread among the children — Kernel Fleck is weird. He’s not like us. Stay away from him.
I never made many friends after that.
→ My name’s Cornelius, but I couldn’t say that when I was younger. The closest I could get was Kernel. Mum and Dad thought that was cute and started using it instead of my real name. It stuck and now that’s what everybody calls me.
I think some parents shouldn’t be allowed to name their kids. There should be a committee to forbid names which will cause problems later. I mean, even without the lights, what chance did I have of fitting in with any normal crowd with a name like Kernel – or Cornelius – Fleck!
We live in a city. Mum’s a university lecturer. Dad’s an artist who also does some freelance teaching. (He actually spends more time teaching than drawing, but whenever anyone asks, he says he’s an artist.) We live on the third floor of an old warehouse which has been converted into apartments. Huge rooms with very high ceilings. I sometimes feel like a Munchkin, or Jack in the giant’s castle.
Dad’s very good with his hands. He makes brilliant model aeroplanes and hangs them from the wooden beams of my bedroom ceiling. When they start to clutter the place up, or if we just get the urge one lazy Sunday afternoon, the pair of us make bombs out of apples, conkers – whatever we can find that’s hard and round – and launch them at the planes. We fire away until we run out of ammo or all the planes are destroyed. Then Dad sets to work on new models and we do it all over again. At the moment the ceiling’s about a third full.
I like it here. Our apartment is great; we’re close to lots of shops, a cool adventure playground, museums, cinemas galore. School’s