“I don’t know. On a street somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Con? Are you here?”
Silence.
“Yeah.”
“But you were there with me.”
“Yeah.”
“And Griff and Ben, too?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the last thing you saw?”
“I’m fucking sick, Jack.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the toilet. At that pub. Can you find it?”
I stood up, had to steady myself against a bus kiosk. I almost dropped the phone, fumbled to get it back up to my face.
“I’ll find it.”
I checked the calls before putting it away, and saw that I’d spoken to Nickie two times that night.
And I wondered if I fucked things up again.
I stumbled along on the sidewalk, and found the Warren Street Underground. I wasn’t too far from Conner, but I had no idea how I’d ended up here, either.
I had to know.
I phoned her.
“Jack.” She sounded tired, like she’d been sleeping.
“Nickie. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I told you, Jack. I wish I could help you to stop being frightened about things. You know I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Did I do anything stupid?”
She laughed. “I think you and Conner have had a little too much beer, Jack. You should go to sleep.”
“I love you, Nickie.”
“Good night, Jack,” she said. “I do love you. I promise. Now go to bed.”
The rain stopped before I got there.
I stood in the doorway to The Prince of Wales, dripping, embarrassed to go inside because I was so wet and so drunk. The bartender eyed me, but promptly ignored me. He was closing down. I wondered. if I’d done anything bad.
“Your mate’s come back.” The bartender nodded toward the rear of the room.
Conner left some money on the bar and came out to the street.
“You look like hell,” he said.
I shrugged. “You don’t look so good yourself.”
We started back to the hotel. Conner put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Did you fall in the river or something?”
“Dude, I have no idea. When I came out of it, I was just sitting on the side of the street. Where were you?”
“I was standing at the bar watching that guy fill a pint glass of beer for me,” Conner said. “I’m fucking drunk, I know that.”
“Me too.” I began shivering. “I need to get dry.”
We walked.
“So, do you remember the last thing you saw?”
I heard him inhale. “I was just sitting there with you guys. And I saw this winking light in the window, and the next thing I know I was looking at a glass of beer.”
We had come to the front of the hotel. The doormen looked suspiciously at me. I dripped water all over the floor.
Don’t fucking look at me.
We walked through the lobby.
I said, “You were with me and Griff and Ben?”
“And that kid, too. In that hospital.”
“What kid?”
“The boy on the beach. He said his name was Max, but that’s all he ever said. Max.”
“I don’t remember how we got there.”
The elevator doors yawned open.
“Ben started a fight because he thought they were going to take his guns away. He was crazy, I guess. Nobody wanted to hurt us, Jack, but we were all scared of them. Then everyone started fighting. It was pathetic, a bunch of bloody crippled kids trying to fight. Finally, Griff let off a few rounds in the air and everyone ran back. So they brought you all to the hospital and they left you guys in all your clothes because they were scared to touch you, and thought I’d do something crazy if they tried to take your guns off.” Conner looked at me. “So they put five beds in there and let me stay with you.”
“And everyone’s okay?” I asked.
“Griff threw a fit because somebody took his dog home. You had to talk him out of shooting everyone at the hospital over it.”
I began to feel warm again once I’d changed into dry things. Conner was already in bed, and the lights were out; but I had other things to take care of.
I had to be sure.
And I began tearing through everything I owned.
“I know what you’re doing, Jack.”
I froze.
“What the fuck do you expect me to do, Con?” I don’t think I’d ever been so angry at him, didn’t really understand where it was coming from.
I heard him sit up in bed.
“I know what you’re doing because I already looked for it, Jack. It’s right where you left it, inside one of your socks. Want me to show you?”
I sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry, Con. Sorry.”
I put my face in my hands.
Jack doesn’t cry.
“I’m sick of this shit, Con, but I can’t stop it. I don’t think I’m supposed to stop it. I know that sounds fucking crazy.”
“I kind of get it, Jack,” Conner said. “I almost wish that we really did get rid of them that day at Blackpool.”
“You did. Seth brought the lens back.”
“I know.”
“Do you know everything? About him? Who he was?”
“Yeah.”
I swallowed. “I know this is crazy, Con, but Seth was there, in Freddie’s house with me. Way before I ever ran into Henry. Like, somehow, it was all supposed to happen, anyway.”
“You were right, Jack. He wasn’t just fucking with our brains. There really is something there.”
“You sure of that, Con? You sure that guy was ever really here, on this side of the lens?”
Conner shrugged.
I got up, dug my hand down inside the backpack. I just had to know it was still there. I found the sock and Conner said, “And those other two blue ones are in there, too. I saw them, and I’m scared of ’em, Jack.”
He turned on the light.
I found the sock, could already feel the additional weight of the other lenses inside it. I balled the sock up tight, slipped it inside another. “I’m going to leave it alone, Con. I promise.” I sat down again. “I saw something in those lenses that night I picked them up.”
“So did I,” Conner said. He got out of bed and stood in front of me. “And, Jack? I think maybe things are happening to me.”
“It’s not our fault what happens.”
“I’m scared, Jack.”
Fifty-Eight
Jack was going home.
We met Nickie at Paddington Station and caught the train to Heathrow.
It was depressing. We held hands and said little more than how slow time would pass until we could be together again.
Conner had already phoned Rachel. He sat across from us, glumly watching the places that passed by outside the window.
An American soldier walked down the aisle through our car. His name badge said STRANGE. Conner noticed it, too. He shifted in his seat, looked at Nickie, then me, and whispered, “This is fucked up.”
I could see it in his eyes. He was feeling sick.
So was I.
Conner stood up. “I got to go to the toilet.”
“It’s going to be okay, Con.”
He started to walk away, and I said, “We’ll be back soon.”
He turned around and just nodded his chin upward.
He knew what I meant.
I wasn’t talking about here. I wasn’t talking about California, either.
We had to say good-bye at the check-in. Conner and I were nearly late by the time we walked what seemed like an endless path of corridors and sidewalks from the train platform to the terminal.
Nickie kissed Conner and gave him a hug. She smiled at me, but her eyes were heavy and wet. We embraced, kissing so deeply I didn’t think I’d be able to let go of her. Then she said, “I think what you di
d was beautiful, Jack.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
She opened her bag. A painted wooden horse with a thread-spool wheel between his back legs.
“It was next to my bed this morning,” she said. “I can’t imagine how you did it, unless you enlisted Ander as your confederate. But he’s lovely, Jack. Thank you. And it was a beautiful story, too.”
We kissed again.
I lied to her. “You’re welcome. I’m happy you like it. Remember me.”
“I need you to remember something, too.”
I knew what Nickie meant.
“I promise I will.”
Don’t lie to her.
And Nickie said, “Things are going to be better, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Then take care of yourself.”
Conner watched.
He knew.
And, later, he kept his eyes on me, nervous, trembling, when I checked my pack in at the counter. He’d seen me shut it with those lenses inside. I must have opened it to be sure they were still there a dozen times or more before I finally let it go.
“Are you sure you can do that, Jack?”
“It’ll be okay, Con.”
Fifty-Nine
Glenbrook.
The day after we came home.
We’re both pale and sweating. We sit in Conner’s truck while he drives around.
The windows are up and the air-conditioning blows against my bare chest, but it doesn’t help.
Summer’s end is so hot in Glenbrook.
“Maybe it will only be for a minute,” he says.
I’m shaking so bad I can hardly get the words out. “Park over here, man.”
Just a peek.
It’s a joke, right? I notice we’re sitting in the lot at Steckel Park.
Everything comes back to this, doesn’t it?
“Come on, Jack. I’m really sick. I feel like I’m going to die or something.”
“I know.”
I look up. “I need air.”
I open the door. “Get out of the truck, Con.”
I am holding the sock. I never once opened it since we left London, but I can feel what’s inside it like it’s vibrating in my hand, a buzzing insect, tickling me to open my fingers and set it free. Conner doubles over beside his door. I can hear him trying to throw up, but nothing comes.
“Let’s go over there,” I say.
He follows me and we sit down in the grass beneath a tree.
“This really is happening, isn’t it?” he says. “I didn’t want to show you this. I was scared. Look what happened to me.”
Conner leans back and pulls down the waistband of his shorts. There is a small scar, a burn on the skin a few inches below his belly. It is shaped like an incomplete figure 8, sideways, like the outline of a fish.
“This wasn’t here before,” he says. “Never.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what it means, Con.”
Two boys are playing basketball.
Conner bends his knees and puts his face between them.
I unroll the socks, try not to look at what’s inside.
There.
I have the Marbury lens in my hand, close my grasp around it. But I can feel it, and I am happy.
Jack is happy.
“I have it,” I say. “You ready?”
Conner lifts his face. He looks like he’s been crying, but I know it’s only the sweat. I take a deep breath. I wind the sock up and put it into the Velcro pocket on my shorts.
A basketball rolls up and hits Conner’s feet.
“Hey. A little help, please?”
Two boys, shooting baskets in front of us. Ben Miller and Griffin Goodrich.
Ben asks, “You guys want to play?”
Conner grabs my wrist. “Holy shit, Jack.”
Griffin says, “Hey, do you speak English, or what? Can you throw us the ball?”
I look at him.
And seeing Ben and Griffin in the park gives me some careful sense of relief. But it makes me wonder, too, about Marbury, Henry, the gap between here and there.
Conner says, “It’s them.”
“This is real, Con. I need to be sure it’s real.”
Conner is breathing hard. I can see him shaking. “Don’t do it, Jack. Let’s just quit.”
We can’t quit.
He picks up the ball and fires it at Griffin.
“Thanks. So, you guys want to play two-on-two?”
Shakily, Conner pushes himself to his feet, but he looks sick. “We’ll play. Get up, Jack.”
I open my hand.
Griffin stares at the lens, and behind him, Ben stands frozen at the edge of the court, watching us.
In their eyes, I can see a pale reflection.
Something big.
A colorless sky.
Other Books by Andrew Smith
In the Path of Falling Objects
Ghost Medicine
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my friends Craig Morton and Dean Shauger, who were willing to talk me through some of the tricky parts I had with this story. Thanks, also, to fellow authors Michael Grant, Brian James, Bill Konigsberg, Yvonne Prinz, and Kelly Milner Halls; as well as to blogger Adam DeCamp; and friends Nora Rawn, Andrea Vuleta, Nevin Mays, and Lucia Lemieux—all of whom gave me their input when I asked for it.
As always, my warmest thanks and appreciation to my agent, Laura Rennert.
One more thing. My great-grandfather on my American side lived around the same time as Seth Mansfield. He was a foundling, too.
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An Imprint of Macmillan
THE MARBURY LENS. Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Smith. All rights reserved. Distributed in Canada by H.B. Fenn and Company Ltd. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smith, Andrew (Andrew Anselmo),
The Marbury lens / Andrew Smith.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After being kidnapped and barely escaping, sixteen-year-old Jack goes to London with his best friend Connor, where someone gives him a pair of glasses that send him to an alternate universe where war is raging, he is responsible for the survival of two younger boys, and Connor is trying to kill them all.
ISBN: 978-0-312-61342-6
[1. Emotional problems—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. London (England)—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.S64257Mar 2010
[Fic]—dc22 2010013007
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Andrew Smith, The Marbury Lens
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