Young Writers Society

4/4/2014

This chapter has been scrapped, and the only reason I have left it up is to compare it to the re-written version.

A/N: So, here's the third chapter! I think it's the worst chapter so far, but please don't let that dissuade you from reading on! This is basically a "filler" chapter. Reviews appreciated! =D

CHAPTER THREE:

Reaching a level of understanding.

It was that time of the year again.

And the leaves had begun to fall.

The sun traipsed in, flooding the grey and green city-scape with brilliant reds and blues. The colour of the sky lightened slowly, almost as if it were afraid of reeling the daylight in too quickly. The sun was climbing a staircase to the sky, and the city was awakening with what seemed like mathematical precision. Solar alarm clocks were always reliable, always on time.

There was no better schedule than the sun.

But the West Midlands Police digressed. There was no set time for when something could go wrong and they would be called in. There had been many strange cases, many of them in the middle of the night. The department had dealt with murders and muggers – M & Ms as they liked to call them – and maniacs.

But even the Police were baffled when it came to murder on a bus in the middle of the night. Nor could they explain the strange burns in the road; almost as if a straight line had been indented into the tarry surface all the way to Birmingham.

The strangest thing though, was the fact that nobody on the bus remembered the eighteen year old boy who had jumped to his death, or the paunchy grey-eyed man who had had quite the argument with the conductor – Ernie, the twitchy giant of a man said his name was, when the police interrogated him.

‘I’ve heard of exploding weasels,’ Ernie had said stoutly, ‘but never exploding passengers. It’s utter rigmarole, tha’s what it is.’

‘What happened, exactly?’ the Inspector pressed him for answers, ‘Did the man speak to anyone before he died? Did he have convulsions? The angle of his neck certainly suggests as much, but the medical examiner’s confounded. Can’t explain a thing.’

‘Well ...’ the man hesitated, ‘The man just clambered in with the rest of them at the stop some way outta Scarborough. He and three other men, a boy and a couple of women. All of them looked like they were from the country. He jus’ paid ‘is fare withou’ complaint and settled down in his seat. I fell asleep in my seat up front’ – here Ernie shrugged sheepishly – ‘and the next thing I knew was the bus had started quaking, the man slid out from ‘is seat and ‘e was dead. There was blood everywhere. It all ‘appened so quickly, really. I dunno anything more, Officer.’

The inspector asked Ernie a few more questions – if he had talked to anybody after the incident. But Ernie didn’t remember.

‘’S all a blank,’ he said softly, but his eyes were uncertain, as if he was struggling to remember something that refused to be remembered, ‘I remember herding the passengers back into the seats ... it was all so confusing. First there was panic, and then there was fear. Screams and then silence ...’ his eyes had hazed over and he shook his head violently. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said firmly, ‘I jus’ don’t remember.’

And that was that. It was like the grey-eyed man with the walrus moustache had never even existed. None of the passengers could shed any light on the matter, either.

But as they were finally allowed to leave the scene, a young girl tugged at her mother’s skirt and asked: ‘Mummy, where did the fire-man go? Did the magician make him disappear?’

But Eileen Gray just shushed her daughter and told her she had an over-active imagination.

After all, what would a mere child know?

And none of them noticed a stout, middle-aged man dressed in a great-coat walking into the distance, a satisfied smirk playing on his features.

Human beings are such an ignorant species, he thought sardonically, as he strolled away into the path of the rising sun and disappeared from sight.

***

Birmingham. It seemed to Hawk that this was a city where you could keep on wandering forever and yet never grow familiar with it. With its labyrinthine alleyways and surprise-staircases that seemed to pop out of nowhere, it was like walking in a mass of tangled ivy. In other ways, however, it succeeded in making you feel very insignificant, with its wide roads and bright neon lights flashing everywhere. Hawk felt lost as he stood there, just staring at the crowds of people all headed off to their destinations.

Starched grey faces. Starched grey lives. It was a bustling city-scape; horribly typical in all its glory.

And if you kept on walking, (and walking, and still walking onward) you would enter an area where the latest models of Mercedes would drive past you with sneering glances, and where mothers picked their children from school in the highest high-heels it was possible to wear.

Welcome to Rainside, the perfect place for a suburban stroll, Hawk thought drolly. It wasn’t like he really wanted to be here, anyway. But he needed answers – answers he was determined to get, no matter what obstacles life hurled at him.

And if this was the place, then so be it, he thought with renewed determination.

The leaves crunched underfoot as he walked on. The sky was an electric blue – just plain exhilarating. The roads were black and smooth, so different from the gravelly ones he was used to. Hawk was almost afraid to walk on them, because he felt like he’d just slide along them, as if they were made of ice.

He wondered how odd he must look; a tall, bedraggled country boy trudging along the sidewalk of one of the city’s largest suburbs. His jeans and sweatshirt were both brand-new and looked well-cared for.

That is, if you ignored the fact that a large tear ran the length of the material from the knee towards the ankle.

There was also the fact that the jeans had been singed off from the bottom. To an ordinary observer, it would have looked as though the boy had been wading in a sea of flame. Any sane ordinary observer, however, would not be thinking of such a thing. Not at all. A sane ordinary observer would jump to the conclusion that this boy was dangerous; possibly even a juvenile criminal. Words like “pyromaniac,” “crazy teen” and “drugs” would pass through their dreary minds, winding through their narrow perspective of the world.

And that was exactly what the inhabitants of the prim, red-bricked houses were whispering to each other in not-so-hushed monotones as they attended to the pruning of their rose-bushes and watched the scowling stranger walk by. Their staring was starting to unnerve Hawk, because he was having a really bad day. And that was merely a euphemism for what he really felt like; almost as if he’d drowned in a lake of ash.

Oh, the irony, he thought sarcastically, rolling his eyes out of sheer exasperation. He was tired of everything. Tired of the senselessness, tired of all the abnormality and unanswered questions. How on earth was he supposed to tell anyone that he’d jumped off a moving vehicle in the middle of the highway – in the dead of the night – and survived?

But Hawk was grateful for one thing: there was no-one to tell.

He frowned at a gaggle of tiny ten-year-olds, all of whom were staring at him rather openly and unabashedly. But they scuttled away quickly as they caught sight of his not-so-happy expression. They were whispering frantically amongst themselves, like gossipy old women on rollerblades. Hawk sighed, irritated.

Kids these days, he thought, and then winced. It seemed like Ann Bobby had rubbed off on him more than he’d originally thought – he was thinking like her now, too. Quite soon he’d have convinced himself to return to Low Wood and forget all about The Letter. But he couldn’t do that. Not now. Not when he’d gotten so close...

Hawk shook his head furiously, as if trying to clear his head of all undesirable – and yet tempting – thoughts. He ignored the stares he was attracting. It was obvious that all the people in the vicinity thought he was quite mad.

He tried to think about something – anything – other than Ann Bobby. Thinking about her made him feel … guilty, somehow.

But he was just being stupid. Why was he feeling like this? He had left Ann Bobby to keep her safe.

That was what he told himself anyway.

You didn't leave because you were afraid to hurt her, the voices in his head hissed at him, but because that letter told you to. You just needed an excuse to leave was all.

Well, I've left, haven’t I? Hawk argued with his head.You can’t pretend it hadn't gotten out of control. The fire does what it wants half the stinking time!

But you do have control over it. What about when you burnt down the garden shed? Remember that?

Hawk shuddered as he thought about it. It had been the same night he had received the mysterious letter, the letter that had turned his life into a discombobulated mess. He had needed to take his anger out on something, and the garden shed had been the unlucky target.

But there were been incidents before that, even. the voices continued, Remember that time you woke up to find a hole singed through your quilt?

It was the nightmares, Hawk thought. Just the nightmares.

They weren't nightmares, Hawk, and you know that. The flames are taking control, and you’re far too afraid to admit it.

How can I be afraid of something that’s part of me?

You can be afraid of your thoughts.

Well, my thoughts are frightening me right now. I’m talking to myself.

Insanity is the blindest form of bravery.

‘Oh, shut up, you.’ Hawk growled, succeeding only in drawing more glares from the withered old woman who had been peering at him over her daisies. He ignored her, and began thinking about what had happened the night before. The experience seemed surreal now, but if it had been a dream, that meant that Hawk had been dreaming up his entire existence as well.

But what was ever real about reality anyway?

It had been the first time he had set fire to himself. The flames had saved his life as he hurtled towards the ground ( Right after Paunch gave me a helpful shove in the right direction, he thought sarcastically.) For a second there, as he fell, he had felt the ecstasy sweep through him, the sparks whirling down his spine and through his body. A strange tidal wave passed through his arms and legs until his limbs were screaming with agony. It had been hot, so blisteringly... hot...

A flash of sudden, speckled light. The flickering of flames and the smell of burnt rubber. A searing sound. Sparks. The crackle of electricity.

Fire.

He was on fire. And the word literal had never been more apt than in that precise moment. Hawk landed on the ground with a soft thump, managing to maintain his balance and staggering upright. His lower body was all ablaze, like an inverted human torch. He breathed out with a “whoosh,” and the flames went out.

Just like that.

Hawk had walked the remaining three miles to Birmingham. There was nothing to suggest that he had been there, except for the line of fire he left behind. No-one could make any sense out of it.

But it could all be traced back to an eighteen year old boy with certain “issues,” walking along a suburban street where the seasonal jackets of crimson and gold hung off the trees like artsy cobwebs. The strange thing, though, was the fact that if you asked him what had happened, he’d have replied that it hadn't made any sense to him either.

But Hawk had given up on understanding the senselessness a long time ago. Now, though, he had a chance to solve the paradox that was himself.

And the answer lay in a folded-up letter, carefully stowed away in his pockets. He had set out with a purpose, and it was time to fulfil it.

The road ended just then, coming to a grinding halt. The house that stood before him seemed out of place somehow, perched on the very edge of the suburbs. Hawk noticed that it was far grander than all the others that surrounded it. It looked down at him condescendingly, and its exterior gave off an aura of undeniable haughtiness. But it wasn't just that. There was an air of danger about the place – the intimidating-looking wrought iron gate, the statue of the Griffin in the front lawn. And yet, the atmosphere around it was filled with a kind of adrenaline, with old stories of adventure and betrayal.

There was a plaque beside the gate. Etched over it in silver, spindly writing were the words:

Dr. Bernard Mason

B-21, Rainside Street

Hawk breathed in deeply. This was the place all right.

He stood there, motionless for a second, as if debating over what course of action to take. He placed a ghostly hand on the gate; it was unlocked. It was now or never, it seemed. But why was he finding it so hard to just walk into the house, where he knew the answers were waiting? What if the truth about him – the truth about his parents – was too difficult for him to bear? What if–?

And that was when the door opened, almost as if the world had already made his decisions for him.