Leave the Last Page (5 page)

‘Still do,' muttered Dan, who pointed to a shelf. Ben noticed the collection of dice there, alongside some painted figurines of monsters and warriors.

‘Good to see not everything's on a screen these days, then.'

Dan looked up, frowning. ‘Is there something you want, Dad?'

‘No…just making conversation.'

‘Well, if there's nothing else…'

It's just like me and my Dad
, thought Ben.
I'm about to be sent out of a room in my own house by a fourteen-year-old.

‘There is,' said Ben.

‘There is what?'

‘There is something else.' Ben looked at all the fantasy-themed paraphernalia around him.
Why not?
he thought. ‘I want to talk to you about a case I'm working on.'

‘Dad, you've never talked to me about your work – every time I asked you said you weren't allowed to.'

Ben sat on the bed. ‘Well, this case isn't going to be mine come the morning, and I'm not sure police work can sort out what I've experienced today.'

That got his son's interest. ‘Have you had a murder to deal with?'

‘No, police tend to cope with those quite successfully. This has been stranger than that. That's why I thought you might be able to help me make sense of it.'

At that Dan let the laptop slip to the side.

Ben knew he shouldn't really share all this with his son, but he had to talk to somebody about it, and there was probably no one more likely than Dan to accept even a fraction of the day's events.

‘Okay. You know Sunnyside old folks home…'

He told Daniel everything: the dead old lady, the busted patio doors, the abandoned wheelchair, the missing pair, the story pages, the transformed grass, the shattered fountain, the frogs and the mushrooms and the scary,
scary
wolves.

Dan took it all in; nodded at key moments, asked questions when necessary. At no point did he laugh, or disregard anything that Ben said. It was the most attention Dan had paid him since he used to read him bedtime stories.
That's what all this sounds like, that's why,
thought Ben.

‘You say you've got copies of the story pages? Can I read them?'

Ben said yes, went down to the kitchen, grabbed them with a couple of Cokes, and re-joined his son.

After fifteen minutes studying the pages, Dan picked up the laptop again. ‘I want to show you something, Dad. I think this will blow your mind.'

Dan showed him. And Ben's mind was blown.

*

It was late, but Ben felt he should still make the call. Mr Holliday answered. ‘Alex,' said Ben. ‘I just wanted to let you know that there won't be a detective on your case come the morning.' There was a few seconds while Ben listened to Alex's annoyed response. Then Ben continued: ‘I'll still be at your house bright and early though. Yes, I'm going to take some leave. I can't walk away from this. I want to help you look for your son.'

TOM LOOKED DOWN AT HIS LEGS AND STILL COULDN'T QUITE BELIEVE IT.

They were in an empty warehouse. Grandma had found a loose window above some bins and they managed to climb up and slide in. Now he was sat on a pile of pallets, but every so often he would swing his legs, just to make sure that they still worked. There had been times today when the strength had left them, and reality had started to slip back into his world. At those points they'd taken a rest and chatted, sometimes about what was happening on this crazy day, but sometimes about ordinary things like changing schools, keeping busy in the holidays, Grandma's stories about Greatgrammy Aisling, and of course, Grandma's cool walking stick. It was covered with stickers, most of them promoting the bands and musicians that she liked.

‘What's a metal licker, Grandma?'

‘It's pronounced meh-tal-icka, Tom. They're a hard rock band.'

‘Oh, I see.' Conversations like that.

Grandma had popped into a Late Shop and picked up a couple of sandwiches for them. ‘50p off each because they need eating today. Bargain!' Now they sat in silence as they munched their way through their supper.

It allowed Tom some time to think over the day's events.

It had started in the house when he'd had a good old moan to Grandma about his dad and how he never got to spend any time with him. He also complained about how he was still treated like a little kid, just because he couldn't run around and kick a ball like other boys his age. He had his latest notebook with him, and grandma had agreed to read the story.

A page or so in she said: ‘This could be me and you on an adventure!'

Tom had shrunk a little in his chair. ‘I don't get to have adventures.'

How wrong he had been.

Grandma had told him they were sneaking off to see her mother, his Greatgrammy Aisling, which was okay as long as they didn't tell his dad. Tom liked the idea of doing something sneaky behind his father's back.

But then what had happened there had been unbelievable. The long talk with Greatgrammy, most of which he didn't quite understand, ended with her producing a beautiful necklace from a locked box in one of her drawers. Then, wow! What she did with the story before sadly slipping away…

Within seconds the patio doors had blown in; no explosion but something like an isolated, pinpointed tornado did the damage. It had been enough to send Tom sprawling from his chair. In the space the door had vacated stood a man in a black suit, and when he held out his hand the necklace shot from Grandma Patty's grasp into the man's uncommonly huge fist. ‘Thank you,' he said, grinning. ‘For everything.'

For everything?
He hadn't known at the time what that really meant. He did now.

Once he had gone, Grandma Patty had turned to Tom. ‘Come on then! Get up! Let's get after him!'

‘Can you help me get to my chair?'

‘You think you need that thing?' She stepped towards it and kicked it into the corner. ‘Use your legs!'

‘Are you crazy?'

‘George can walk, can't he? And we need to run if we're going to catch him up!'

George? George from the story?

Something had compelled Tom to try. He didn't have to try too hard. With much less effort than he expected, Tom had got to his feet. ‘Holy moly…'

‘Pick up your notebook – no doubt we'll need that.'

And that's when Tom realised what was going on, and what an adventure he was finally going to have.

He so wanted to tell Dad. Or at least leave him a message. ‘Wait a sec.' And that's when he had torn out the first few pages of the story.

In the warehouse, Grandma disturbed his train of thought. ‘You finished with that?' He nodded, so she took the empty sandwich pack from him. ‘I think we'll try and sleep in here tonight. There's some huge dust sheets over there so we can use that to keep warm. And you can cuddle your grandma if you like!'

‘I think I'll be okay.' He looked at Grandma Patty in the murk of the warehouse. The only light was coming from the street outside. He could make out some of the bright colours of her clothes though, and the large golden key on the cord around her neck. ‘What do you think that's going to be for?' he asked. They'd got it from the park, when Grandma had struck the fountain with her walking stick and had somehow split the stone structure into pieces. The key had been inside.

‘It could be the same as in your story,' said Grandma. ‘But it might not be. Those wolves were a bit more scary in the park than they were in your tale.' Grandma and Tom had been circled by them at one point – it was only the huge thunder crack of the fountain splitting that had scared them away. ‘One thing for certain is that I'm sure it's going to be important. We had to damage a lot of park property to get it!'

‘So what's next, Grandma?'

‘Come the morning we continue to search for the man in black and my mammy's necklace.'

‘I guess it means a lot to you.'

‘It's been in the family for generations, Master Tommy, and it certainly doesn't belong in that man's hands. That's our quest.'

Tom rested his chin on his palm. ‘Who is he, Grandma?'

She smiled and nodded at Tom's notebook. ‘You know better than anyone else. He's come from the pages of your story.'

‘Yeah, but he must be somebody. He can't just pop into existence.'

‘Do you think those wolves were always real? Those frogs? I think they're real when they are right in front of us, but then they fade into the background, like tuning out a radio. Sometimes they are on our frequency, sometimes not.'

‘I think he's very dangerous when he is on our frequency.'

‘No doubt. Wouldn't be an adventure if he wasn't!' Grandmother and grandson grinned at each other.

As Grandma Patty went to fetch the dust sheets Tom thought about the notion of this strange world he was in tuning in and out, about frequencies and strong and weak signals, like on his mobile or with the Wi Fi. It seemed about right, and was the only way he could make sense of it. The world he knew currently had a weaker signal than the world of the story. That seemed true on the way to the warehouse. It was clear that – at times – when they walked passed people on the street they just couldn't be seen: they weren't on the same frequency. Other times they drew peculiar looks and so the signal must have come back a bit stronger. The same had happened when they'd finally found a working phone box and they tried to contact home. The numbers they dialled just weren't recognised; they got nothing but static noise.

Tom felt that the only way he was able to contact Mum and Dad was through the story pages. That was why he had decided that he would leave them at different places, like the breadcrumbs in Hansel and Gretel. Another strange thing though: if he tried to add other writing to the pages, like a direct message to his parents, the pen just wouldn't work. It was like Greatgrammy Aisling had sealed the story. The path was set, and couldn't be altered. They'd talked about that, and decided that probably meant the story was on all frequencies – that they could read it, and then anyone else who might find it after them. He just hoped Mum and Dad had, and that they could work out what was happening, and were following not too far behind.

Grandma Patty returned with the dust sheets. ‘Plenty here to wrap us up in! Then once we're comfy you can read me more of your story. I think I need to see what we've got in store tomorrow.'

‘It could even be tonight,' said Tom, looking around the dark corners of the empty warehouse. It was an unfriendly looking place.

‘Yes, I suppose. We could be in for more fun and games before morning. All the more reason to pore over that story, Sunshine! Let's have a look at what the heroic George and the gorgeous Helena are up to!'

They huddled up and started to read through the next few pages. Despite the craziness of what was happening, he was enjoying the simplicity of sharing one of his stories with his Grandma. She'd been a bigger part of his life when he was younger, but now he was growing up he had previously thought that spending time with a sixty-year-old lady was not a cool thing for a maturing young man to do. It was becoming clear to him now that he was wrong in that assumption.

‘How much shall we read?' she asked.

Tom flicked ahead a few pages, only to find that the paper was blank. ‘All my writing's gone!'

Grandma Patty pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘I bet it'll come back when we need it. I imagine we're only supposed to read this section. I remember when I was in school being told off by my teacher for skipping to the end of the story.'

Tom laughed. ‘That happened to me too! I tried it once and Mrs Aziram rapped my fingers with a ruler!'

Granma Patty raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn't think teachers could do that these days.'

‘You haven't met Mrs Aziram! She's a real battleaxe! She's really old too-'

‘Ahem!'

Tom flushed. ‘Sorry, Grandma. There's nothing wrong with being old-'

‘Ahem!' She stared at him indignantly.

‘Not that you're old!' He was floundering a little. ‘You're…mature! And wise!'

‘Let's just read a bit more of this story shall we, before I feel tempted to crack you on the knuckles with my walking stick!'

They settled back into the story. Once they'd finished the pages that were written on, Tom carefully tore them from the notebook. ‘Just in case we haven't got time when…
things
happen. I want to be sure I can leave them for Dad.'

‘Very wise. And mature.' Now it was Grandma Patty's turn to look into the impenetrable darkness of the warehouse corners. Skittering and scratching noises could be faintly heard, and the occasional movement of small black shadows became apparent as her eyes adjusted. ‘There are some strange and wondrous things in that part of the story, dearie. Who knows what we're going to be facing next.'