Alexander's Army

  By then I was on him, tugging his arm. “Come on. I mean it. We’ve got to run.”

  He pushed me off and ran to the window, where he could see the new cards better. He ripped the pack open. “These are cool.”

  A carousel turned. A whole strip of paperbacks clattered to the floor. Ryan, too immersed in his cards, didn’t notice it.

  One last time, I shouted his name.

  Then the cart began to move.

  Once it started, it moved like a car burning rubber at a light. As it bore down on Ryan, I screamed his name and my head went through a familiar routine — a slight touch of dizziness, a moment of breathlessness. I squeezed my eyes shut. Idiot was all I could think as I tried to picture Ryan anywhere but against that window.

  The cart went through it with the force of a two-ton truck. I covered my ears as the window shattered and glass rained down on the courtyard below. I heard a thump and a wrenching of metal. A spray of water flowered past the window. A young girl screamed. Shell-shocked, I staggered to the window and looked down. The cart had landed on top of the fountain, demolishing the fish and the dais the fountain sat on. Water was jetting from a broken pipe, spraying outward, flooding the courtyard. Books and comics were everywhere. Two men and a woman ran out of the school’s reception area. One of them was Mr. Solomon, the principal. “Turn off the water!” he shouted to the other man — Eric, the janitor. I stood back from the window as Solomon looked up to see where the cart had come from. And that’s when I saw Alexander, a white-coated figure in horn-rimmed glasses and army boots, standing on the flat roof opposite the library. Just like the time in the rain, he had his arms stretched out in a taut umbrella shape. Without looking at the library, he backed away and went down an isolated fire escape into the school parking lot. I saw him take off his glasses and get into a van before calmly driving away.

  I looked again at the wreckage. There was no sign of Ryan.

  But on the floor where he’d been standing were the cards he’d been looking at before the crash. I picked one up and was almost sick. In the corner where Dobbs and the other men had been was a picture of a scientist in a lab coat and glasses. Diagonally opposite the drawing were his details.

  The Boffin.

  At school, the fallout was horrendous. The next morning, Mr. Solomon rounded up every boy (and two girls) who were known to have collected Tommy cards or swapped them. All cards were confiscated and use of them in school was strictly prohibited. Anyone seen with them would immediately be suspended, Mr. Solomon told a school assembly. Whoever had committed this appalling act of vandalism would be tracked down and dealt with — and made to pay.

  He interviewed all of us, including, at length, me, Freddie, Iain Grant, and a very confused Ryan Garvey.

  I’d tried to call Ryan after the incident, only to hear that his phone was off. I spent most of the night fretting that I’d killed him or pasted him into an alternate universe. To my relief, he’d turned up at school as usual, safe and unbruised, but strangely withdrawn.

  “You okay?” I’d asked him, expecting the usual arrogant grunt. Instead, he’d shied away and sat alone at a desk, hidden behind a book. Whoa. Call the documentary makers. Ryan Garvey with a book was like the eighth wonder of the world. If anyone approached him, he said he was reading (the ninth wonder of the world!) and flapped them away. Something was definitely wrong. I knew I’d saved his life last night by changing my reality at the crucial moment. But what had it done to him? We’d been in the library, I reminded myself. But Ryan the bookworm? Surely that hadn’t been in my head?

  I got my answer during my stint in the principal’s study.

  Mrs. Greaves, his secretary, marched me in. “Shoulders back, hands at your sides.” That in itself was pretty unnerving. I half expected to look through the window and see Mr. Tavistock’s woodworking class constructing a gallows out in the yard.

  Mr. Solomon was sitting at his desk, swiveling his huge leather chair. His gaze never left my face as he spoke. “The people over here are three of the school governors.”

  I glanced to my right. Two men and a woman were on a row of chairs. One of the men was sitting forward wringing his hands, head bent low. The woman’s expression was as dour as the crumpled fish outside.

  “Look at me, not at them,” Mr. Solomon said. “They are here at my request, to listen and observe. The young lady on your left is Janice Maywater. She is the school relationship counselor. She is here to make sure you have a fair hearing. I’ll come straight to the point, Malone. I understand that you were one of the last boys to visit the library after school yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Just Ryan, sir.”

  “Ryan Garvey?”

  “Sir.”

  His eyes flicked down to his desk. Janice Maywater scribbled something on a notepad. One of the governors breathed in sharply.

  “Tell us why you went to the library, Michael.”

  “For the book fair, sir.”

  “The book fair that was canceled by a notice from Mrs. Rowley, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you find the library open or locked?”

  “Locked, sir.”

  “Was there anyone in there?”

  I shook my head. “The lights were off.”

  “I see. And Ryan was with you at this time?”

  Why was he going on about Ryan? “Yes — sir.” I glanced to my right. The governor nearest to me was stirring the air with the toe of his shoe.

  “Look at me, Michael.”

  I found Mr. Solomon’s gaze again.

  “Did you force the door open?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, sir. Positive.” What, I wondered, had Ryan told him?

  “But you tried the door, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “It was locked.”

  “So you made no attempt to force your way in?”

  Janice Maywater raised her hand. The principal gave a tight-lipped nod. She said, “Did anyone with you force the door, Michael? Or anyone after you, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know, miss.” I shook my head. They were starting to confuse me now.

  Ms. Maywater threw me a troubled look. “Michael, you do know that if you’re found to be lying, the consequences will be very serious?”

  “Honest, miss. I didn’t break in — and neither did Ryan.”

  “Well, on the subject of Ryan.” Mr. Solomon was swift to take the lead again. “How do you explain this?” He threw a newspaper to the front of the desk. “Go on. Take a look.”

  I stepped forward and peered at it. On a page of the Holton Post was a picture of Ryan sitting in the medieval stocks that were one of Holton’s tourist “attractions.” Around his neck was a sign saying IDIOT. Nearly every kid in Holton had stuck their head in those stocks at some point, but idiot was the last thought in my mind when I’d changed my reality. Faster than the speed of light, I must have pictured Ryan there and rearranged the time lines to make it happen. Now the emphasis on him began to make sense.

  “You look puzzled, Michael.” Mr. Solomon steepled his fingers as if his hands were a snare in which he might catch me. He leaned forward and tapped the picture. “Let me clarify something for you. I rang the Holton Post this morning. This photograph was taken at around three twenty-five yesterday. So unless you’ve reinvented the laws of physics and somehow made Mr. Garvey appear in two places at once, he couldn’t have been with you at the library, could he?”

  “But Freddie and Iain —?”

  “Oh, yes, Hancock and Grant have given us the same bit of flimflam. Garvey led the charge to the library. Garvey was the one most deeply disappointed about the cancellation. And therefore, Garvey, a known troublemaker, by implication broke into the library, pushed a cart through a plate-glass window, and caused more than three thousand dollars’ worth of damage. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we? I’m afraid you??
?ve been undone, Michael. Your carefully thought-out plan has been derailed by virtue of a timely piece of journalism.”

  “Mr. Solomon —?” Janice Maywater tried to cut in.

  But Solomon was steaming now. He had me in the crosshairs of his sights. “I will ask you plainly and you will answer me true: Did you or did you not go into the library last night and push that book cart through the window?”

  I looked down at my feet.

  “Answer me, boy!”

  “NO, SIR!” I shouted across the table. A tear rolled out of my eye.

  The toe-flipping governor slapped his knee. “Then why are you lying about this fool Garvey?”

  Mr. Solomon’s gaze turned laser sharp. One chance, that was all I had.

  “Because …” Think of something, Michael. Think. “Because he was crowing about having the best cards, sir.”

  They paused for breath. We all paused for breath.

  “So you thought you’d implicate your friend? For having a better set of … cards than you?” Mr. Solomon was incredulous with fury.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hanging my head in shame. Shame that I’d had to lie about Ryan. Shame that I couldn’t speak the whole truth.

  Janice Maywater said, “Mr. Solomon, rightly or wrongly, it’s not uncommon for teenage boys to engage in this kind of competitive falsehood.”

  “Not in my school!” he thundered. He leveled a finger. “I don’t believe it. Not for one moment. You’re in this up to your neck, Malone. The police have been informed about this incident. If they find your fingerprints on that cart, nothing on this earth will save you from my wrath.”

  Oh, no? How about the UNICORNE organization? I so wanted to thump his desk and tell him I had reinvented the laws of physics. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

  “Get out,” he snapped, swinging his chair toward the governors. “And don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”

  I backed away, unsteady on my feet. Janice Maywater began to stand up to help me. She sat down again as the second male governor took my arm and guided me toward the door. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered. “School gates. Rear entrance. Break time. Be there.”

  I didn’t need to look at him to know who he was. I recognized the gravelly tone in his voice.

  It was the UNICORNE director.

  The Bulldog.

  When the bell rang for morning break, I made the excuse that I needed the restroom and escaped from Ryan and the other boys, who were anxious to know how I’d gotten on with Solomon. I cut across the hall and through the kitchens, carefully avoiding the chatting lunch ladies. I hurried across a small delivery yard and into the road. A black car was waiting outside the rear gates, its engine running. One of its doors clicked open. I dipped my head and got in.

  The Bulldog was in the backseat. “Drive around the block,” he said to Mulrooney, who was behind the wheel as usual.

  “I can’t stay,” I said nervously. “If I’m gone the whole break, the others will look for me. How did you get into Solomon’s office?”

  The Bulldog stroked the underside of his chin, using his fingers in a razorlike action. A smell of cigarette smoke was clinging to his suit. “I am a school governor,” he replied. “A degree of normality can be useful in situations such as this. I’ve brought you here to tell you what’s going to happen. By the end of the morning, the governors will have recommended to the principal that you, Garvey, Hancock, and Grant be suspended for two days, pending an inquiry.”

  “What?!”

  “A carefully worded letter will be sent to your mother. You performed well in there, but Solomon wants a result. Your little gang of friends are his primary suspects. I am not about to disabuse him of that, especially as UNICORNE needs you in the field. Our targets at the comic store have stepped up their intent. They have thrown down a gauntlet, which you will pick up. I want this file resolved, quickly. Now, pay attention. I need to ask you some questions about the incident.”

  “I told Chantelle everything last night.” I’d texted her after I’d run from the library and we’d had a brief conversation at home. Her instructions were to stay put and act as if nothing had happened. So I’d done exactly that, burying my head in homework all evening. Meeting the Bulldog in Solomon’s office was the first indication that UNICORNE was actively on the case.

  “She says you found new cards. I take it you have them?”

  I nodded. I’d sealed the Boffin cards in an envelope and hidden them inside my shirt — a trick Dad had taught me long ago for smuggling birthday cards past Mom.

  The Bulldog flipped through them. He stared at the image as if it meant more to him than he wanted to reveal.

  “He doesn’t do much,” I said. Unlike the soldiers, the Boffin figure just stood, head bent, in his lab coat and boots. All that moved were his arms, which lifted slowly from his sides to make the intimidating A shape.

  “He doesn’t need to do anything,” the Bulldog muttered, his cheeks wobbling with every word. “This is simply the image he uses when he commands his men.”

  “Men?” I said.

  “The soldiers on the cards,” Mulrooney said. “People with telekinetic ability always use some form of visualization to help them concentrate their mind. We think this Boffin-slash-Alexander guy has created an imaginary troop of soldiers that he uses to carry out sorties for him. The heel of Chantelle’s shoe, for instance. He’ll picture them laying a rope on the floor, and when she puts her foot in the right position, he’ll imagine them pulling the rope against the heel with enough force to break it off the shoe. With practice, I could achieve a task like that. But moving that cart through the window, at speed? That would take a vast amount of concentration. It’s a neat method, you might even say beautiful. I’d admire him if he wasn’t so dangerous.”

  A troop of soldiers? That would explain the ghostly footsteps. Enough for an army.

  Alexander’s Army.

  I tightened my fists and shuddered.

  The Bulldog slipped the cards into his jacket. “Did you touch the cart?”

  “No, but Ryan did.”

  “We’re onto the cart, sir,” Mulrooney said. “One of our teams was on the scene right away. All the police will find is a bunch of smears. Tell me about the van you saw Alexander get into, Michael.”

  “It was white, a bit dirty.”

  “Any lettering?”

  “No.” I looked at the Bulldog, who was working a piece of food off his teeth. “What did you mean when you said I was picking up the gauntlet?”

  “You will stay at home tomorrow and memorize this.” He handed me an unsealed envelope from his lap. “It contains details of Freya’s new identity.”

  I lifted the flap and teased out the first page. “Devon Winters? That’s her new name?”

  “Her choice,” said Mulrooney. “Check out the photograph.”

  I pulled the page to halfway. “Wow. That’s Freya?”

  “They’ve done a good job with her,” Mulrooney said.

  No, they’d done an amazing job. They’d bleached her eyebrows and given her blond hair down to her shoulders. Her nose stud had been removed and the hole patched up. She looked incredibly young. Innocently pretty, in the same way Josie was. No hint of the moody Goth. “How did you change her eyes?” I asked. They’d miraculously gone from brown to pale blue.

  “Colored contact lenses,” Mulrooney said.

  A crow in contacts. That was kind of surreal.

  The Bulldog wiggled a finger, meaning I should put the papers away. “Read it — in private — and then destroy it. You need to know what your sister will be primed with and what you have in common with … Miss Winters. Tomorrow, after school, she will come to your house. On Friday morning, you will go to the comic store together. A car will come to pick you up at home. Don’t be late. Let the boy out now, please.”

  The car pulled up and the door clicked open. “By the way,” the Bulldog said, staring at his fingernails as if they’d been surgically renewed ove
rnight, “the reality shift was most impressive. Have you noticed any consequences, other than Garvey’s embarrassing predicament?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good. You’re beginning to perfect the gift. Your father would have been proud of you.”

  As he said this, we made eye contact for a moment. Though the interior of the car was dark, his eyes appeared to be a uniform color. I blinked for a moment and seemed to recall that during my attack on Preeve, I’d seen one green iris and one gray. How could that be? I immediately looked for flecks, but by then he was turning away, saying, “Try to stay out of trouble, Michael.”

  And they dropped me back where they’d picked me up, and drove away quickly into the rain.

  Mom sank onto the sofa in slow, slow motion, the letter from Solomon quivering in her hands. “Please tell me you had nothing to do with this.” Her voice was as fragile as a pine needle falling off a Christmas tree.

  “You should see the fountain,” Josie babbled. “It’s like … urk.” She put her head sideways and stuck out her tongue.

  “Josie, go upstairs and get changed,” said Mom. “I need to talk to Michael alone.”

  “But I need to talk to you as well,” Josie tutted. She stamped her foot. “It’s really important.”

  “Later,” said Mom, trying not to sound harsh.

  But that was how Josie took it, harshly. “Oh!” she huffed. “It’s always Michael! Michael. Michael. Michael. Michael!” She tossed back her hair and headed for the stairs.

  “Well?” Mom said as calmer air settled. The room seemed to shrink beneath her wounded gaze.

  “Mom, I swear, I didn’t do it.”

  “They’ve suspended you. Again.”

  “It’s not fair. I didn’t do it.”

  She raised the letter as if to form a cup for any tears she might shed. “Then why am I holding this? It says you were one of a group of boys who were known to be at the library last night. What’s going on, Michael? What’s happened to my beautiful, good-natured son?”

  I could have gone either way at that point. I could have thrown a tantrum and stormed upstairs. Instead, I shuffled my feet and said, “I’m here. Honest.”