I started with that tale from the past for two reasons. One will become obvious as this book unfolds. The other reason is:
This is a true story.
I don’t expect you to believe me – I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t lived it – but it is. Everything I describe in this book happened, just as I tell it.
The thing about real life is, when you do something stupid, it normally costs you. In books, the heroes can make as many mistakes as they like. It doesn’t matter what they do, because everything comes good at the end. They’ll beat the bad guys and put things right and everything ends up hunky-dory.
In real life, vacuum cleaners kill spiders. If you cross a busy road without looking, you get whacked by a car. If you fall out of a tree, you break some bones.
Real life’s nasty. It’s cruel. It doesn’t care about heroes and happy endings and the way things should be. In real life, bad things happen. People die. Fights are lost. Evil often wins.
I just wanted to make that clear before I began.
One more thing: my name isn’t really Darren Shan. Everything’s true in this book, except for names. I’ve had to change them because… well, by the time you get to the end, you’ll understand.
I haven’t used any real names, not mine, my sister’s, my friends or teachers. Nobody’s. I’m not even going to tell you the name of my town or country. I daren’t.
Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction. If you’re ready, let’s begin. If this was a made-up story, it would begin at night, with a storm blowing and owls hooting and rattling noises under the bed. But this is a real story, so I have to begin where it really started.
It started in a toilet.
I WAS in the toilet at school, sitting down, humming a song. I had my trousers on. I’d come in near the end of English class, feeling sick. My teacher, Mr Dalton, is great about things like that. He’s smart and knows when you’re faking and when you’re being serious. He took one look at me when I raised my hand and said I was ill, then nodded his head and told me to make for the toilet.
“Throw up whatever’s bugging you, Darren,” he said, “then get your behind back in here.”
I wish every teacher was as understanding as Mr Dalton.
In the end, I didn’t get sick, but still felt queasy, so I stayed on the toilet. I heard the bell ring for the end of class and everybody came rushing out on their lunch break. I wanted to join them but knew Mr Dalton would give out if he saw me in the yard so soon. He doesn’t get mad if you trick him but he goes quiet and won’t speak to you for ages, and that’s almost worse than being shouted at.
So, there I was, humming, watching my watch, waiting. Then I heard someone calling my name.
“Darren! Hey, Darren! Have you fallen in or what?”
I grinned. It was Steve Leopard, my best friend. Steve’s real surname was Leonard, but everyone called him Steve Leopard. And not just because the names sound alike. Steve used to be what my mum calls “a wild child”. He raised hell wherever he went, got into fights, stole in shops. One day – he was still in a pushchair – he found a sharp stick and prodded passing women with it (no prizes for guessing where he stuck it!).
He was feared and despised everywhere he went. But not by me. I’ve been his best friend since Montessori, when we first met. My mum says I was drawn to his wildness, but I just thought he was a great guy to be with. He had a fierce temper, and threw scary tantrums when he lost it, but I simply ran away when that happened and came back again once he’d calmed down.
Steve’s reputation had softened over the years – his mum took him to see a lot of good counsellors who taught him how to control himself – but he was still a minor legend in the schoolyard and not someone you messed with, even if you were bigger and older than him.
“Hey, Steve,” I called back. “I’m in here.” I hit the door so he’d know which one I was behind.
He hurried over and I opened the door. He smiled when he saw me sitting down with my trousers on. “Did you puke?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Do you think you’re gonna?”
“Maybe,” I said. Then I leaned forward all of a sudden and made a sick noise. Bluurgh! But Steve Leopard knew me too well to be fooled.
“Give my boots a polish while you’re down there,” he said, and laughed when I pretended to spit on his shoes and rub them with a sheet of toilet paper.
“Did I miss anything in class?” I asked, sitting up.
“Nah,” he said. “The usual crap.”
“Did you do your history homework?” I asked.
“It doesn’t have to be done until tomorrow, does it?” he asked, getting worried. Steve’s always forgetting about homework.
“The day after tomorrow,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said, relaxing. “Even better. I thought… ” He stopped and frowned. “Hold on,” he said. “Today’s Thursday. The day after tomorrow would be… ”
“Got you!” I yelled, punching him on the shoulder.
“Ow!” he shouted. “That hurt.” He rubbed his arm but I could tell he wasn’t really hurt. “Are you coming out?” he asked then.
“I thought I’d stay in here and admire the view,” I said, leaning back on the toilet seat.
“Quit messing,” he said. “We were five-one down when I came in. We’re probably six or seven down now. We need you.” He was talking about football. We play a game every lunchtime. My team normally wins but we’d lost a lot of our best players. Dave Morgan broke his leg. Sam White transferred to another school when his family moved. And Danny Curtain had stopped playing football in order to spend lunch hanging out with Sheila Leigh, the girl he fancies. Idiot!
I’m our best full-forward. There are better defenders and midfielders, and Tommy Jones is the best goalkeeper in the whole school. But I’m the only one who can stand up front and score four or five times a day without fail.
“OK,” I said, standing. “I’ll save you. I’ve scored a hat trick every day this week. It would be a pity to stop now.”
We passed the older guys – smoking around the sinks as usual – and hurried to my locker so I could change into my trainers. I used to have a great pair, which I won in a writing competition. But the laces snapped a few months ago and the rubber along the sides started to fall off. And then my feet grew! The pair I have now are OK but they’re not the same.
We were eight-three down when I got on the pitch. It wasn’t a real pitch, just a long stretch of yard with painted goal posts at either end. Whoever painted them was a right idiot. He put the crossbar too high at one end and too low at the other!
“Never fear, Hotshot Shan is here!” I shouted as I ran onto the pitch. A lot of players laughed or groaned, but I could see my team mates picking up and our opponents growing worried.
I