Awethology Light

Jack Croxall

  Copyright 2015 Jack Croxall

  All Rights Reserved

  Dylan

  Are you sure nobody is watching you right now?

  There are good versions of the being watched feeling. That buzz you get when you catch an attractive person looking at you, or when someone is watching you play an instrument and you can tell they’re impressed. Stuff like that. But then there is the bad version. That eerie, nauseating feeling that your actions are being monitored, analysed even. It’s that same feeling the old black and white movies are so obsessed with; some PI trudging through the rain in a trench coat and upturned collar, his slick Chicago voiceover announcing, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was bein’ tailed. But in real life it’s not thrilling, it’s not something you can brush off whilst you woo a dame and solve a mystery, it’s stifling.

  I’m not exactly sure why anybody would want to watch me. I’m normal. Sixteen years old and doing okay at my local school. Yet still, I think I am being watched. All the little signs are there: deliberate footsteps in the distance, something wrong with reflections I pass in shop windows, and that unshakeable sensation, that instinctive sense that I am never alone.

  I think the fact that my parents have gone away for their anniversary makes it worse because the house is empty. I tell myself I’m being paranoid. I live in a busy little town so of course there are people looking in my direction. But they’re probably staring beyond me at a posh car driving along the road, or at someone in the distance they recognise. I tell myself over and over that I’m being stupid. I’m struggling to sleep as it is, exams results are soon, after all.

  Anyway, that’s what I should do now, try and get some rest.

  When I wake it’s still dark. And there’s a noise. A rhythmic pitter-patter outside, like an infant tapping on a toy bongo. I’m scared, should I cower under my duvet? No. I’m not a child anymore for God’s sake. I need to look out of the window and see what it is, probably just a fox or something. I imagine how my dad would react: annoyance at something disturbing his rest on a weekday. That’s what I should be feeling, not fear.

  Slowly but surely, I climb out from beneath my covers. The noise continues, never breaking rhythm or getting any louder. Carefully, I tweak my curtains open and peer outside. There’s a figure. He’s standing in my driveway with his back to me. He’s shuffling from foot to foot like he’s cold. I know it’s night time but it’s mid-August, hardly freezing. In his hand is a lit cigarette, a glowing red dot amongst the dull greys and blacks of the municipal gloom.

  As he lifts his cigarette to his mouth and takes a long drag, I realise that he’s about my age, maybe a year or so older. Some competitive, aggressive animal instinct surges through my body. I’m going outside and I’m going to demand to know what he’s doing on my property. I move away from the’ curtains and grab my old hockey stick for good measure.

  I slam open the front door and take several confident strides outside, brandishing my makeshift weapon. The figure turns and drops his cigarette.

  “What are you doing on my driveway?” I shout, surprising even myself at how angry I sound.

  His hands shoot into the air like I’m aiming an assault rifle at him. “Holy crap, don’t hurt me, bro!” He’s American.

  I stop a few paces in front of him, hockey stick poised to strike in case he tries something. “It’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here? Are you trying to rob me?”

  “No, bro, you got me all wrong, dude.” He seems terrified, but it could easily be a ruse so I don’t lower my stick.

  “What then?” I demand.

  “I’m just checking up on you, bro,” he answers, his hands still raised, “making sure you’re all good, y’know?”

  “What the heck is that supposed to —” My blood boils. “Is it you that’s been watching me? Is it you that’s been following me?”

  “Er — yeah, but it’s not what you think, it’s —”

  “Are you some sick pervert or something?”

  “No, no. I’m Dylan; I’m your guardian angel, bro.”

  I can honestly say I was not expecting that. “Guardian angel ...” I mutter. “Are you mad? No, of course. You’re high. Right, I’m calling the police.” I begin to turn.

  He drops to his knees, stopping me. “Bro, please, you can’t.” His hands are clasped together and he looks almost sincere.

  “Why shouldn’t I call the police? A stranger on my property in the middle of the night claiming to be a guardian angel? I think the police might be interested in that, bro.”

  “Please,” he begs, apparently close to tears, “if you call the police, the guys upstairs — my bosses — they’ll find out and I’ll be in serious doo-doo. Everything I’ve told you is straight up true, I swear it, bro. You gotta believe me.”

  I’m stood here in my pyjamas, brandishing my primary school hockey stick, gawping at a madman. I can’t believe what I say next. “If you’re my guardian angel, then where are your wings?”

  He looks at me like I’m the mad one. “We don’t have wings, dude, that’s just what parents tell their kiddies ...”

  I start to turn again.

  “Wait,” he shouts, raising himself, “I can prove it!”

  As he approaches me, I lift my weapon and he halts, his palms held up in surrender. Next, he slowly reaches inside his leather jacket and pulls out a single cigarette. He snaps the fingers in his other hand and, suddenly, his index finger is on fire. He lights his cigarette from the flame and takes a pull. “See?” he says, exhaling with a smile, “want a drag?”

  It’s an impressive trick but it hardly proves the existence of angels. I find myself wondering if this Dylan, this American with shaggy brown hair and loose, ripped jeans, might have some sort of condition. He absolutely seems to believe what he’s saying after all.

  “I’m alright,” I say, declining his offer of a smoke, and then, strangely, I add, “thanks.”

  He nods and I lower my hockey stick. “Is there someone I can telephone for you?” I ask, as he smokes. “Someone I can ask to come and collect you?”

  “Collect me?” he says, confused. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

  “But you can’t stay out here,” I say, trying to sound firm but ending up sounding concerned, “it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Thought you’d never ask, bro, it’s freezing out here.”

  Before I can stop him, he’s breezed past me on his way towards my front door.

  “You can’t go in,” I shout, chasing after him.

  “Oh, sorry, bro, where are my manners?” He flicks his half-finished cigarette onto the drive and promptly disappears through the door.

  I stammer a few pointless, exasperated syllables before stomping out his cigarette and following him inside.

  When I catch up to my guardian angel, he’s already rooting through my fridge.

  “I’m stoked you’ve got a fridge full of eats, bro. I’m starving.”

  I consider whacking him on the back of the head there and then, but I know there are laws against that kind of thing. And to be frank, my weapon was really just for show anyway.

  “You can’t stay here, Dylan,” I say, leaning my hockey stick against the wall as I speak. In the meagre light of the fridge, Dylan looks pretty thin and weedy. I honestly doubt he could do me much damage if it came to blows.

  “I totally hear you, bro,” he says, munching on a slice of ham, “just a quick time out and I’ll head straight back outside.”

  “No, I mean you can’t stay anywhere on this property.”

  He turns to look at me, swallows and then says, “But I’m your guardian angel, dude, I have to stick around to protect you.”

  He looks so sincere, so innocent and maybe even ... vulnerable? I let out a heavy sigh. “Just make yourself a sandwich, I’ll be right back.”

  I need advice. This situation is way beyond me. I head up to my room and grab my phone. I turn it on and, after it’s blinked into life, I
try to call my dad. I know it’s night time, but he and Mum are on holiday, maybe they’re still up after a late dinner?

  Straight to answer phone. Damn.

  I trot back downstairs and find Dylan sitting at my kitchen table, eating a large sandwich in the ambient glow coming through the window. I flick on the light.

  “Woah,” Dylan says, squinting, “give me a heads up before you do that again, bro.”

  “Dylan,” I say, crossing the kitchen, “do you have a mobile I can use to call your parents? Or maybe a friend?”

  “Don’t have a cell,” he says, stuffing more sandwich into his mouth. He swallows and then continues, “Oh, and it would be totally rad if you don’t tell anyone we’ve talked. I’m not really supposed to make contact with my subject unless the brief specifically says so.”

  “Brief? What?” I shake my head. “Dylan, you do understand that I need to find someone to come and get you, to take you back home?”

  “You are my home, dude,” he says happily, “at least you are whilst I’m on assignment. What’s your name anyway?”

  “My name? You say you’re my guardian angel and you don’t even know my name?”

  “Sucks, right? They only give us pictures and addresses, say names aren’t important.” He puts on a shrill voice which seems to be an impression of someone he knows, “You only need to know information which will aid you in completing your assignment.” He laughs at his apparently hilarious joke, and then takes another bite of his sandwich. “So what is it?” he asks, between chomps, “Steve? David? Adam — I bet it’s Adam, right?”

  I shake my head at all of his suggestions. “James,” I tell him, “it’s James.”

  “Hmm. Didn’t have you pegged for a James, dude.”

  “I’m sorry,” I respond, backtracking, “what was that you were saying about an assignment just now?”

  He puts his sandwich down and swallows. “I’ve been assigned to help you make it through tomorrow, bro. So don’t worry, I got your back.” He gives me a quick thumbs up and goes back to his meal.

  “What’s happening tomorrow?” I ask, despite myself. “What is it you think you need to help me through?”

  He swallows and then bites his lip. “Erm, I’m afraid I don’t actually know that, bro, I kind of left the assignment doc at my friend Chen’s house. Sorry about that, dude. We’ll work something out though.”

  “Your ‘assignment doc’?” I think his sincerity is infectious, I find myself strangely engrossed in what he has to say.

  “I’m sorry James, man,” he answers, “but Chen found this old N64 in his basement, and we were playing this righteous racing game, and I sort of forgot to finish reading the doc which explained what’s going down tomorrow, and then I got transported here, and now I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do. So — erm — sorry about that, bro.”

  I’m scarcely keeping up with him and I’m making those strange, monosyllabic noises again.

  “Oh, and, also, dude, this is kind of like my first ever assignment, so it’s totally rad that you didn’t phone the cops on me. That would not have ended well for me, man.” He laughs once more and goes back to his sandwich.

  I take a deep breath; as surreal as it is, this is the situation that has landed before me and I need to take control and deal with it. It’s what my dad would do.

  “Do guardian angels sleep?” I ask, formulating a plan.

  Dylan finishes the last of his sandwich and nods. “We certainly do, bro.”

  “Then, would you like to stay here tonight? Then we can try and work everything out together in the morning?”

  “That would be chill,” he beams, “you’re one awesome dude, James.”

  “Excellent. Then follow me to the spare room, it’s all set up so you can sleep in there tonight.”

  When I show Dylan into the guestroom, he drops straight onto the bed. “Far out, bro, this is one comfy bunk.”

  “Far out, indeed,” I agree somewhat awkwardly. “Do you need anything else?”

  He shakes his head, his eyes already closed.

  “Great, I’ll see you in the morning. Night, Dylan.”

  “Sweet dreams, bro.”

  Once I’ve closed the door, I retrieve my hockey stick from the kitchen (just to be safe) and set myself up on a chair in the hallway outside of the guestroom. I resign myself to try Dad’s mobile every fifteen minutes, and begin my watch. It’s only a few hours until morning, and soon I’ll be able to ask my parents what to do. Then I can deal with the situation safely and correctly.

  I’m woken up by a gentle shake of the shoulder.

  “Rise and shine, bro,” Dylan says merrily.

  My heart starts to race and I frantically grasp for my hockey stick.

  Dylan reaches down to his side. “Here it is, bro,” he says, holding it out for me, “you must have dropped it when you fell asleep.”

  “Er — I — thanks,” I stammer fuzzily, taking it back from him without knowing quite what to do with it.

  “No, problem. You really like hockey, huh?”

  At first I think he’s goading me but then I realise, just like last night, he looks wholly genuine. Crap, last night, my plan. I shoot up from my chair, my aching back and neck protesting painfully. “Do you want any breakfast, Dylan?”

  “You read my mind, man,” Dylan answers, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Right, well, do you want to sit out on the porch in the back garden?” I ask, noticing the sunshine streaming in through the hallway window. “Then I can bring some toast and orange juice out for us?”

  “OJ? Righteous!” Dylan exclaims, already heading off down the hall and towards the backdoor.

  Once I’m safely alone in the kitchen, I slip my phone out from my pocket. There’s a text message from my dad:

  Hey, couple of missed calls from u, u ok? Mum and I having a great time, weather perfect D x

  I hit “call back” and the phone begins to ring, and then keeps on ringing. Eventually, it goes to answer phone. I bet dad left it in the hotel room, he’s always doing that. Cursing myself for sleeping through his text, I leave a hurried voice message asking him to call me back as soon as possible. Then in my head I decide that, if Dad doesn’t phone in the next hour, I’m going to have to call the police and get them to come and sort Dylan out. That notion makes me feel slightly guilty though.

  When I take the toast and juice outside, Dylan is sitting on a garden chair smoking. I find myself wondering if he used his little trick to light his cigarette again.

  “Awesome,” he says, eyeing the food, “I’m starving.”

  I sit down as Dylan puts out his cigarette and we both start eating.

  “So, how are you feeling today?” I ask tentatively, through mouthfuls of toast and jam.

  “Stupendous, bro,” he answers, “thanks so much for putting me up last night.”

  “No problem,” I say graciously. But I’m really more interested in knowing if he still thinks he’s my guardian angel. Maybe he’ll claim he’s my talking pet dog today, or maybe even an alien. “And what about everything we talked about last —”

  “Bro,” he interrupts confidently, “don’t you worry about a thing. Whatever happens today, I got your back — that’s what being a guardian angel is all about.”

  At least that answers that. I swallow another mouthful of toast and, before I’ve even considered whether I should really be humouring his fantasy, I ask, “So how does the guardian angel business work, then? How do you people know something bad is going to happen to me?”

  “Beats me,” Dylan answers between chomps, “I just get sent a brief from my bosses. Then, at a designated time I get transported near to where the subject is living. That’s usually a couple of days before the bad thing goes down, that way we have plenty of time to scope out the situation.”

  “And then what?”

  “Mainly keep our distance, and intervene only when the bad thing finally happens. Some briefs
have specific tasks, so, like, make sure the subject has no access to dangerous substances in case they try something reckless, or make sure a loved one is around that day to comfort them.”

  “Sounds like a worthwhile job.” I notice it”s me that sounds sincere now.

  “It is,” Dylan answers. “I kinda just fell into to it, but it”s been pretty rad so far.”

  I’m about to ask something else when my phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say, standing from the table, “I’d better answer this.”

  “Go for it, bro.”

  As soon as I’m in the hallway, I lift the phone to my ear. “Dad, I’ve —”

  “James,” the voice says, “it’s Michael.”

  “Michael?” I say, annoyed it’s my best friend and not my dad. “Sorry, but I can’t really do anything today, I’m —”

  “No, it’s not that, mate,” he says. I can tell he’s nervous.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Look, James, you know how I said I was going into school to help mum out yesterday?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well I did, and I managed to sneak into Davenport’s office when mum and the other cleaners went for a coffee break. I had a look through everyone’s results ...”

  “How did we do?” I ask, my stomach doing butterflies.

  “I’m sorry, mate,” he answers dismally, “but you only got three C and above.”

  “Oh...” I say, the world around me turning grey.

  “But you got an A in History,” he adds with a glimmer of cheerfulness, “and a B in English, that’s good.” But the damage is done. Without five C and above the head of sixth form will never let me in. I’m finished.

  “How did you do?” I manage to ask, trying to care.

  “I did okay thanks, mate. I’m really sorry, but I thought you’d want to know now rather than finding out in front of everyone at school.”

  “Yeah, thanks for telling me,” I say, sounding as miserable as I feel.

  “Do you want me to come over?” Michael asks.

  “No — no, thanks. I just need a bit of time. I’ll call you later. Thanks.”

  “Of course, let me know if you need —”

  I hang up and pocket my phone, staring at the walls. That’s it, my entire plan; get into sixth form, get my A-levels and go to university, scuppered. The head of sixth form, Mrs Davenport, is exceptionally strict. There’s no way she’s going to let me in with just three C and above. What happened? I’m no Einstein, but I was certain I’d done enough to get my five Cs. I was sure of it.

  Leaving Dylan to fend for himself, I head up to my bedroom. It’s the only thing I can think to do; crawl under my covers and hide from the world forever.

  Just as I collapse into my bed, my phone starts ringing again. It’s dad. I don’t answer; I have bigger problems than Dylan now.

  my life is over

  After about an hour, I hear a soft knock on my bedroom door.

  “Everything cool in there, bro?”

  I ignore him so he knocks again, louder this time. “James, you in there, man? You’ve been gone ages, I kinda ate your toast ...”

  “Go away!” There is real venom in my voice because I want to be left alone, I just want to wallow in my own misery.

  My door bursts open. “Did the bad thing happen?” Dylan asks desperately, peering around my room.

  “Dylan,” I say, as his eyes find me cocooned in my duvet, “I just want to be on my own right now.”

  “Just tell me what happened,” he says, “are you alright?”

  I open my mouth intending to tell him to leave, but something in his wide, innocent eyes stops me. “My friend Michael called me,” I say, surprised at how honest I’m being, “I didn’t do well enough in my exams to get into sixth form.”

  Dylan looks genuinely distraught. “Dude, that blows. I’m so sorry, man.”

  “Thanks,” I say automatically.

  “I remember the not doing well enough in your exams feeling,” Dylan says, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

  “Wait,” I say, “you didn’t do well in your exams either?”

  Dylan turns back and shakes his head. “I totally flunked my angel entrance exams, no performing miracles or chillin’ with the big dog for me.”

  “But you are an angel,” I say, “you told me you’re my guardian angel.”

  Dylan nods. “Totally. You don’t need top grades to get on the guardian angel training programme, so, after I flunked my angel entrance exams, I enrolled on the guardian course instead.”

  “So being here, it’s not what you really want?”

  “I love being a guardian angel, bro,” Dylan answers passionately. “Even though classes were tough and I’ve only been doing it a few days, I just know it’s what I want to do. Sounds corny, but I think it’s what I was born to do. Making a difference, it’s what I aspire to, man. The guardian course made me realise that.”

  “Would you not prefer to be a proper, miracle-performing angel though? You know, if you could?”

  “Screw that,” Dylan says, “a fully-fledged angel was what my parents wanted me to be. Besides, I like being down here amongst you guys.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ll do?” Dylan asks. “If you don’t get into sixth form do you have to, like, flip burgers til the end of your days or something?”

  I chuckle. “No, of course not. There are college courses you can get onto with lower grades, apprenticeships, and you can even take a gap year or study abroad.” I’m taken aback by my own knowledge. I guess some of what the careers people said sunk in after all.

  “Righteous. Well, I’ll go clear up the breakfast stuff, let you get your head together.”

  “Okay, see you later, Dylan.”

  As Dylan leaves, I close my eyes. I missed a lot of sleep after last night’s excitement, and I’m feeling physically and mentally drained.

  I wake feeling a lot better. My first thought is that it’s all due to Dylan, and I need to get up and thank him for our little talk.

  When I go downstairs, he’s not in the kitchen or the sitting room. He’s not out on the porch either, so I head for the guestroom.

  Inside, the spare bed is made and the window is open. A gentle breeze circulates the room, bringing the sweet scent of summer in with it. Dylan is gone. I smile. Somehow, I know he’ll be back if I ever need him. I close the door and head upstairs to fire up my laptop. Time to do some research, time to find some new life goals. I’m excited.

   

  Jack Croxall’s Bio & Links

  Originally trained as an environmental scientist, Jack Croxall soon discovered a life in the lab wasn’t for him. He started writing for student publications at university and writing quickly became his passion. He’s now the award-winning author of Wye and the Tethers trilogy, and can be found toiling away as a science/literature writer in between working on his books.

  He tweets via @JackCroxall and blogs at www.jackcroxall.co.uk

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