The Boy Who Could See Demons (30 page)

‘But it takes time to feel good about yourself after feeling worthless your whole life.’

‘What do you mean by foster parents?’

Mum frowned. ‘See, that’s the thing, Alex. I haven’t been truthful with either you or me. Granny wasn’t my real mum, you see. She adopted me when I was about your age.’

I’m not sure what happened after Mum told me that. It was as if a huge glass tube suddenly came down from the ceiling and trapped me inside, the way people put upside-down jars over spiders and they can’t get out, and all I could hear inside the tube was my own heart sprinting and my own thoughts. Which were:

Granny isn’t my granny
?

Auntie Bev isn’t my real auntie
?

Dad didn’t die
?

Who did Ruen get out of Hell, then
?

But I must’ve been making all the right noises because Mum kept talking. I think she was discussing the new house with me and all her plans for decorating when she got out of the hospital, because she kept saying things like ‘red paint, or maybe Tuscan orange’ and ‘lots of posh lamps’. And while she was saying all this, a thought clanked through my head like a midnight express train:

Ruen is lying.

Ruen is lying
.

He didn’t get my dad out of Hell.

There was no massive building or dragons in the sky.

And what was it he’d said? My dad wanted me to
pay the debt
?

In other words, Ruen felt he could spin me a big fib and get some payback while he was at it.

I stood up.

Mum was talking mostly to herself now, going on and on about how she always wanted carpet on the stairs. She was wiping tears from her eyes but smiling at the same time.

‘Maybe we can make a fresh start,’ she said.

I took her hand.

‘Mum, I love you,’ I said. ‘But there’s something I have to do.’

And I went, right when she was deciding between pink and peach tiles for the bathroom.

When I left Mum I got taken back to MacNeice House. As soon as we walked through the red front door there was a big smashing sound and a lady wearing a hairnet and an apron made me walk really slowly up the corridor in case I stood on any glass.

‘Butterfingers today,’ she said, holding up her fingers like she was surprised she had them on the ends of her hands. There were about eleven broken jugs all over the place and a big puddle of water. When I looked down in one of them I saw Ruen’s face smiling back, but he was nowhere to be seen. He knew I was angry with him.

Miss Kells was waiting for me outside my bedroom. I walked up to her.

‘I want to go swimming,’ I told her.

She looked at me very seriously and I noticed her eyes and mouth were exactly like Michael’s. I went to tell her this but then I thought she would only ask who Michael was so I shut up.

‘Alex,’ she said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about something really important.’

‘Right now?’

She nodded.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ I said, but I didn’t say why.

I didn’t say that I needed to have a chat with a nine-thousand-year-old demon who fibbed about busting his way into Hell and helping my father escape just so he could hold one over me. And that I needed somewhere quiet and private to do it, because if I started shouting in my bedroom they’d come in with restraints and more white pills.

‘I need to work on my butterfly crawl,’ I said, and I made a big show of looking at the sign for the swimming pool behind her.

Miss Kells crouched down next to me and I thought of second-hand books with their yellow pages.

‘You know, Alex,’ she said, ‘you can tell me anything. That’s the beauty about having a personal tutor. Nothing you tell me can ever get you into trouble, understand?’

I nodded. I didn’t understand, but when she told me this I felt the knot in my stomach turn to butter and a feeling of warmth flood over me.

I opened my mouth. She nodded, encouraging me to speak. I wanted to tell her about Ruen. I wanted to ask her advice. So I said:

‘Miss Kells, what would you do if someone you really, really trusted told you a really horrible lie?’

She smiled, and her eyes told me she knew why I was asking what I was asking, and I wondered if someone had lied to her the way I’d been lied to. She came close to me and said:

‘I would tell them I never wanted to see them again. Even if I loved them very much, I would never trust them again.’

I nodded and she took my hand, only her hand felt like warm air. ‘Do you need my help, Alex?’

‘Yes,’ I said, but then I shook my head because I didn’t know how she could possibly help me with this one.

‘If you ever need my help in the future, all you have to do is ask,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and I went to ask her something else but when I looked again she was gone.

I did a lot of laps up and down the pool, thumping my body into the ripples with each stroke, imagining I was fighting with Ruen. Occasionally I’d take a rest at the end of a lap, clinging on to the side and muttering orders under my breath for Ruen to show his horrible stony face. But he didn’t show.

Finally, I dragged myself out and went into the sauna. All the other boys were off playing football and the lifeguard was at the side of the pool, so I had the whole place to myself. I went in, lay down on a bench and imagined pure hatred oozing out of my pores.

A cough. I opened my eyes. On the other side of the room I could make out an old man through the steam. He was mean-looking and he had a piranha-fish smile and was wearing a suit that was threading at one side. And the thread snaked its way through the mist and ended at the hem of my towel.

‘You called?’ Ruen said.

‘You’re a liar,’ I shouted.

‘Oh?’ He didn’t seem bothered by the accusation, so I challenged him:

‘You told me that you got my dad out of Hell, and you didn’t.’

‘And how did you come to that conclusion?’

I was standing now, pointing down at him as he sat on the bench opposite. ‘Mum told me my dad is alive and well in Magilligan Prison. So I don’t know who you dragged out of Hell, Ruen. In fact I don’t think you dragged anyone out. I think you made the whole thing up. And I think I don’t owe you anything.’

He stood up and looked at me very crossly. For a moment I thought he was going to change shape and become a monster just to make me feel scared. But he just glanced at a spot in the corner. When I looked, I saw another demon sitting there, unfolding behind the mist. He was dressed in a tweed suit like Ruen’s but it looked new and he seemed younger and timid. He seemed to be writing stuff down in a leather notebook.

‘Who’s that?’ I said.

The demon went to introduce himself but Ruen cut him off. ‘That’s Braze,’ he said. ‘He’s an intern. Ignore him.’

I picked up my towel and made to leave. Just as I reached the door, Ruen said:

‘Your mother lied, Alex.’

I clenched my fists, gritted my teeth and turned around slowly. ‘
What did you say?’

‘Your mother lied,’ Ruen said calmly.

‘Just
who
do you think you—’

He held up a hand. ‘Please,’ he said.

I was shaking with anger and my mouth felt tight as if I was really cold. He swept his hand from me to the bench, gesturing for me to sit down.

‘You’ve got ten seconds to explain.’ I didn’t sit down.

Ruen sighed. ‘The man I saved was your
real
father,’ he said. ‘The man in Magilligan Prison is not. Nobody knows your father isn’t your real father. Not even your grandmother.’

All of a sudden I remembered what Mum had said about Granny:
She’s not your real granny
. The memory and truth of it hit me so hard I had to blink back tears.

‘Why would Mum lie about who my dad is, huh?’ I yelled. ‘How
dare
you call my Mum a liar—’

‘I didn’t,’ Ruen said. ‘I said she
lied
. There’s a difference, dear boy. Your mother lied to protect you. Your mother lied because she loves you, and she knows all too well how much a revelation like this would hurt you. I only tell you now because you force me to.’

He glanced over at the other demon, who was still writing.

I couldn’t stop the tears now, nor could I stop my heart from racing or my whole body pouring with sweat, dripping down my face and arms and fingertips. I took a deep breath. A sob wormed its way out of me, and then hot tears.

Eventually, Ruen approached me. I held my face in my hands. He patted my shoulder.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You weren’t to know.’ Then he turned and sniffed. ‘You can make it up to me.’

24

THE NEWSPAPERS

Anya

I wake with a shout. A glance at the clock beside my bed causes momentary confusion as to the actual day. A quick calculation proves that I have been asleep for fifteen hours. Impossible.

I roll upright and look out the window. Bright sunshine lighting up the small park beneath my apartment block, cars threading along the motorway to Dublin, small and bright as boiled sweets. The River Lagan flicks to my right like a silver scarf, and the city sits in the distance, a cluster of bridges and boats, mint-green domes of old buildings and shining skyscrapers.

On mornings like this, Belfast reminds me of an old fable I once heard of identical twin sisters, separated at birth. After many years they were reunited, one haggard and hunched from years of service, her face dull and drawn, her eyes hollow and black. The other sister turned heads wherever she went, her eyes shining, her smile bright, her posture straight and upright. The beautiful sister made the haggard sister realise how she too could appear, and so she became beautiful for the first time in her life. There are many times when Belfast is that haggard, weathered sister, but there are days when you can catch a glimpse of the other sister’s beauty.

The events of yesterday hit me like a cold shower. The sensation of passing out on the floor. Poppy. The man in the music room.

The missing piece of music.

I blitz slices of apple, kiwi and pineapple in my new blender and drink it while checking my phone for missed calls. The same unknown caller with the unfamiliar number is there. I dial it.

After five rings, someone answers.

‘Anya,
hi
. It’s Karen, Karen Holland.’

Karen
, I think with a groan.

‘Sorry, Karen,’ I say, my voice still husky from too long in bed. ‘I haven’t found anything yet. Alex is at MacNeice House …’

‘I’ve
found something,’ she said quickly. ‘I think it’s quite important. Do you have time for a chat?’

I glance at my watch. ‘I’ve a meeting in twenty minutes. Can I see you later this afternoon?’

‘Perfect.’

When I hang, up the events of the day before continue to rain down on me, stark and unnerving.

For even after a solid fifteen hours’ sleep, I know I saw Poppy: I know I felt her hands on my face; I heard her voice; I smelled her hair, her breath. But I have no idea how to explain it. Nor do I understand the encounter with the old man. His face, rock-like, ancient, and those terrible empty eyes, all still throbbing in my head with a vibrancy I can’t erase.

I had told Melinda about the old man’s visit to the practice room shortly after I regained consciousness. She checked the visitor’s register at reception, then CCTV footage, even contacted every security guard posted around the campus. When she couldn’t find any trace of him, we reported it to the police.

‘Ruen?’ the police officer had asked as I sat in Melinda’s office nursing another coffee. She was sceptical. ‘As in
R-U-
E-N?’

‘That’s the only name he gave.’

‘And about how old?’

‘Somewhere between mid seventies and early eighties,’ I said.

‘Did he have a knife?’

I sighed. It sounded ridiculous just then. I didn’t mention anything of our conversation, nor how I felt. I thought of kidnap victims who discovered they had been taken hostage not at gunpoint but by the barrel of a whiteboard marker pressed against their neck. Sometimes the imagination is the true predator.

Melinda asked to speak to me for a moment and the police officer stepped aside.

‘This guy,’ Melinda said. ‘Did he
really
give his name?’

‘Yes,’ I said with conviction, then doubt crept in. Perhaps he hadn’t said he was Ruen. Perhaps he hadn’t said his name at all.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘It’s just that from your descriptions it sounds like it could be one of the visiting professors.’

‘He knew my name,’ I interjected. ‘He called me Anya.’

‘Your name would have been on the booking sheet on the door, wouldn’t it?’ Melinda said quickly. ‘The school’s VPs don’t come in that often and sometimes they just turn up. Some of them are very, very old. There’s this one man who sounds very similar … He’s a little, well, weird.’

‘Have you got a picture of him?’

She nodded her head at the computer on her desk. I told the police officer to excuse us as we both walked around the other side to face the screen. Melinda gave the mouse a wave to shake the screensaver, then typed a name into the search bar. A few seconds later, the school’s banner appeared in a web browser, followed by a list of staff and their photographs. Melinda scrolled down to a section marked ‘Visiting Professors’ and clicked on a small thumbnail.

‘Here,’ she said. The page reloaded. Staring back at me was a bald man, smiling, his grey eyes shielded by thick black glasses. A similar tombstone-shaped mouth, his top gum broader than his small yellow teeth. He was wearing a bow tie and tweed jacket. I leaned towards the screen, my heart racing.

‘This is Professor Franz Amsel,’ she said. ‘He gave a paper at the music department a couple of nights ago. Do you think it might have been him?’

I looked over the wide smile and the glasses. The man I had seen looked older than this, I told Melinda. She scoffed.

‘Most of these guys send us photos that are older than me,’ she said ruefully. ‘I know Professor Amsel is in his seventies, at least.’