Zom-B

 

On my way home, I choose to tell Dad about what happened with Tyler, Nancy and Mrs. Reed, figuring it's better that he hear about it from me rather than someone else.



To my surprise, Dad is already there when I arrive. He must have clocked off early. He's in the kitchen, talking with someone. No sign of Mum.



Dad often has people over to the flat. As Mrs. Reed noted, he's heavily involved with local movements to stem the tide of immigration and keep Britain white. He does a lot of canvassing for politicians, works hard behind the scenes, helps stir things up.



I've always tried to stay out of that area of his life, but it's getting harder. Now that I'm older, he's started taking me to meetings. I've been to a few rallies with him too, and once he took me to a house packed with Muslims. I stood outside while he went in and had a long conversation with them. Well, it was more of a screaming match. I could hear them from outside, the Muslims shrieking, Dad shouting even louder. I felt small and afraid, no idea what was going on or what would happen next, standing in the middle of the street like a lemon, wondering what I should do if Dad never reappeared.



But he did emerge in the end, and I saw a Muslim guy glowering behind him. Dad pointed to me and said, "That's who I fight for - my kid, my wife, my friends. Anything ever happens to any of them, I'll come back here and burn the lot of you down to the ground."



Then Dad hugged me hard. I glared at the Muslim and shot him the finger. Dad laughed, clapped my back, took me for dinner and bought me the biggest hamburger I'd ever seen. I felt bad about it afterwards but at the time I was on cloud nine.



Part of me knows I should stop acting, that I'm on thin ice, growing less sure of where the actor ends and the real me begins. When I grunted at Nancy, that wasn't part of an act. That came from the soul.



I should tell Dad I don't share his views, that I'm not warped inside like he is, start standing up to him. But how can you say such a thing to your father? He loves me, I know he does, despite the beatings when he's angry. It would break his heart if I told him what I really thought of him.



Dad doesn't like to be disturbed when he's discussing the state of affairs with his friends and associates, so even though I'm hungry, I slide on by the kitchen, planning to head straight to my room. But Dad must hear me because he calls out, "B? Is that you?"



"Yeah."



"Come here a minute."



He sounds more subdued than usual. That tips me off to the fact that there might be somebody important with him. Dad's loud and bullish most of the time, but quiet and submissive around people he respects.



I head into the kitchen, expecting someone in a suit with a politically perfect smile. But I stagger to a halt halfway through the door and stare uncertainly. The guy with Dad is like nobody I've ever seen before.



The man is standing by the table, sipping from a cup of coffee. He sets it down when he spots me and arches an eyebrow, amused by my reaction.



He's very tall, maybe six foot six, and thin, except for a large potbelly. It looks weird on such a slender frame, and the buttons on the pink shirt he's wearing beneath his striped jacket strain to hold it in. He has a mop of white hair and pale skin. Not albino pale, but damn close. Long, creepy-looking fingers.



But it's his eyes that prove so startling. They're by far the biggest I've ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. Almost totally white, except for a dark, tiny pupil at the center of each. As soon as I see him, I immediately think, Owl Man. I almost say it out loud, but catch myself in time. Dad would hit the roof if I insulted one of his guests.



"So this is the infamous B Smith," the man chuckles. He has a smooth, cultured voice. He sounds like a radio presenter, but one of the old guys you hear on a Sunday afternoon on the station your gran listens to.



"Yeah," Dad says. He runs a hand over my head and smiles as if he's in pain and trying to hide it. "How was school?"



"Fine," I mutter, unable to tear my gaze away from Owl Man's enormous, cartoonish eyes.



"Some people think it's rude to stare," Owl Man says merrily, "but I've always considered it a sign of honest curiosity."



"Sorry," I say, blushing at the polite rebuke.



"No need to be," Owl Man laughs. "The young should be curious, and open too. You should have nothing to hide or apologize for at your tender age. Leave that to decrepit old warhorses like your father and me."



Dad clears his throat and looks questioningly at Owl Man. "Anything you'd like to ask?" he says meekly.



"Not just now," Owl Man purrs and waves a long, bony hand at me. "You may proceed. It has been nice seeing you again."



"Again?" I frown, certain I've never met this guy before. There's no way I could have forgotten eyes like that.



"I saw you when you were a child. You were a cute little thing. Sweet enough to eat."



Owl Man gnashes his teeth playfully, but there's nothing funny about the way he does it and I get goose bumps up my arms and the back of my neck.



"I'm going to my room," I tell Dad and hurry out without saying anything else. I half expect Dad to call me back and bark at me for not saying a proper good-bye, but he lets me go without a word.



I find it hard to settle. I keep thinking about the guy in the kitchen, those unnaturally large eyes. Who the hell is he? He doesn't look like anyone else my dad has ever invited round.



I surf the Web for a while, then stick on my headphones and listen to my iPod. I shut my eyes and bop my head to the music, trying to lose myself in the tunes. Sometime later, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling, I spot Owl Man standing just inside the door to my room.



"Bloody hell!" I shout, ripping off the headphones and sitting up quickly.



"I did knock," Owl Man says, "but there was no answer."



"How long have you been standing there?" I yell, trying to remember if I'd been scratching myself inappropriately over the last five or ten minutes.



"Mere moments," he says, his smile never slipping.



"Where's my dad?" I ask, heart beating hard. For a crazy second I think that the stranger has killed Dad, maybe pecked him to death, and is now gearing up for an attack on me.



"In the kitchen," Owl Man says. "I had to come up to use the facilities."



He falls silent and stares at me with his big, round eyes. At the back of my mind I hear Mum reading that old fairy tale to me when I was younger. All the better to see you with, my dear.



"What do you want?" I snap, not caring about insulting him now, angry at him for invading my privacy.



"I wanted to ask you a question."



"Oh yeah?" I squint, wondering if he's going to make a pass at me, ready to scream for Dad if he does.



"Do you still have the dream?" he asks, and the scream dies silently on my lips.



"What dream?" I croak, but I know the one he means, and he knows that I know. I can see it in his freakish, unsettling eyes.



"The dream about the babies," Owl Man says softly. "Your father told me that you had it all the time when you were younger."



"Why the hell would he tell you something like that?" I try to snap, but it comes out more as a sob.



"I'm interested in dreams," Owl Man beams. "Especially dreams of monstrous babies. mummy," he adds in a high-pitched voice, and it sounds just the way the babies in my nightmare say it.



"Get out of my room," I moan. "Get out before I call my dad and tell him you tried to molest me."



"Your father knows I would never do anything like that," Owl Man sniffs and takes a step closer. "I'm not leaving until you tell me."



"No," I spit. "I don't have it anymore, okay?"



Owl Man studies me silently. Then his lips lift into an even wider, sickening smile. "You're lying. You do still have the dream. How interesting."



The tall, thin man pats his potbelly, then presses his fingers to his lips and blows me a kiss. "Good evening, B. It has been a pleasure meeting you again after all these years. Take care of yourself. There are dark times ahead of us. But I think you will fare well."



With that he turns and slips out of my room, carefully closing the door behind him. I don't put my headphones back on. I can't move. I just lie on my bed, think about his enormous eyes, wonder at the nature of his questions and shiver.