Red Sky At Night

By Robin Brindley Johnson

A thrilling, hilarious and unforgettable science-fiction novel about the least likely heroes to stand in the ay of catastrophe......gingers!

Brothers Joel, Taylor and Logan Jones, along with fellow redhead Libby Baxter, face the same issues that many kids growing up have to deal with: Why won't my parents let me blow things up? Who would win if Marvel took on DC? What exactly is the point in going to school? Can my hair look cool when it's ginger?

An ominous red sky over the city of Chester heralds the onset of an unprecedented global event. The four children try to figure out what is happening, unaware that it is they who hold the key to stopping the monstrous fate that awaits the Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244706692

Book preview

Red Sky At Night

Red Sky At Night

Robin Brindley Johnson

Copyright © 2018 by Robin Brindley Johnson

ISBN 978-0-244-70669-2

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

The right of Robin Brindley Johnson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author

For Veronica:

‘What have you done you stupid, stupid man?’

Prologue

He gazed up at the sky, captivated by the beautiful shade of red that was visible between the clouds.  It was likely that there was some poncy name to describe it, like rose or blush, but there was no way that Spencer would have known what it was.  He imagined spitfires silhouetted against it, flipping, turning, darting as they tried to get the enemy in their sights.  In his mind, he could almost hear gun fire and smell the smoke as another BMW 801 engine was shredded by his great grandad’s Hispano cannons.  Without even being aware, Spencer had started humming the theme music to The Dam Busters and was stroking his fledgling, ginger moustache.

‘Spencer!’ He was brought out of his daydream by Mr Braun, the assistant manager.  ‘What are you doing?  The shop, it is heaving and there are very few trolleys left for customers who are arriving.’

‘Sorry, Mr Braun,’ Spencer mumbled.  ‘I was just thinking about how we could make efficiency savings,’ he added, hopefully.

‘You are not employed to find ways of saving the company money,’ Mr Braun told him.  ‘Please, remind me what your job title is.’

Spencer felt himself going red, probably not a dissimilar tone to the sky that he had been using as the backdrop to his Battle of Britain fantasy.  He hated how this happened when he was nervous or embarrassed, but knew it was not uncommon in those with pale skin and red hair.  ‘Junior shop assistant,’ Spencer whispered, unable to meet Mr Braun’s piercing gaze.

‘That is correct,’ Mr Braun agreed; although his English was excellent, he still retained a slight German accent.  For just a fraction of a second, Spencer pictured him trapped and screaming in the cockpit of a Luftwaffe as it plunged to the ground and exploded in a fireball.  ‘And what task have you been asked to attend to this evening?’

‘To collect trolleys from the carpark and return them to the front of the store,’ Spencer told him.  ‘It’s just that…...’

‘Just what?’ Mr Braun demanded.

‘It’s just that I have so much more to offer’ Spencer explained, even managing to make eye contact.

‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Braun replied, impatiently.  ‘I am well aware of your, supposedly, highly-developed organisational skills and your belief that you can lead at a strategic level.  Rarely a day goes past without you informing me or one of my colleagues of this.’  He paused and tried to take a more reconciliatory tone.  ‘How long have you been working for us here at the Chester Central branch?’

‘Just over two years,’ Spencer confirmed.  ‘Straight from school.’

‘And are you really sure that this is the right career path for you?’ the assistant manager asked him gently.  ‘You have such enthusiasm for the Army Reserves.  Have you not thought about applying to Her Majesty’s Armed Forces full time?’

Spencer felt his face going a deeper red and a lump appear at the back of his throat.  ‘I have applied to join full-time,’ he said tetchily.  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not possible due to my asthma.’

‘That is very sad,’ Mr Braun said sympathetically.  ‘I guess you better be more realistic with your dreams.’  He placed a supportive hand on Spencer’s shoulder.  ‘Work hard here and stop spending so much time off in that little world of your own and you may yet do well.  Now, schnell, schnell!’  With those words of encouragement, Mr Braun headed back into the store.

Spencer started pushing the row of trolleys that he had strapped together and felt that familiar tightening in his chest; it often happened when he felt emotional.  Looking around to make sure that no one was watching, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Ventolin inhaler and took two quick puffs.  Within a minute his breathing had returned to normal.  It was hopeless; if he could not even round up trolleys when he felt stressed, what hope was there of him ever leading a platoon of his own men into an operation in Helmand Province?

Something had to give; he had had enough of being told what to do by others who did not have his vision.  He knew that he was born for greatness, even if no one else had yet to see it.  Even though Spencer considered it below him, he put his back into the work and by the time he had finished his shift, every trolley was safely back in store ready for opening in the morning.  Fortunately, perhaps, he was completely unaware of the futility of his work; there would be no need for trolleys in the morning.  Life, as it was known, to Spencer, Mr Braun, the wider population of Chester and beyond, was about to end.

Chapter One: Crash

Joel – 06:30

I had slept abysmally, tossing and turning half the night, dreading the arrival of morning.  My dreams seemed to involve all the different ways that Darren Baker was gonna kill me, all of them painful.  Lying there awake, I tried to think of a way to get out of going to school in the morning, but it seemed hopeless.  Even if I did manage to pull a sickie, I’d still have to go back the next day or the next; my fate seemed inescapable.

The problems had begun three years previously when I’d started at Moss Dene High, supposedly the best school in Chester.  Maybe I’m just a loser, but it didn’t help that I was one of only a handful of ginger kids in the year, which seemed to give everyone an excuse to have a go. Being ginger made me stand out for all the wrong reasons; it’s like being the kid who forgets that it’s own clothes day and comes in their uniform to be laughed at and pointed at, except for me it was like this every day.  There’s only so many times that you can be called a carrot top, have other kids refuse to sit next to you cos they don’t want to catch ginger-vitis, or be informed that your parents must’ve been so disappointed when you were born, before it starts to get to you.

At first, I stood up for myself, challenging those who mocked me.  I told them that being ginger-ist was just as bad as being racist.  Looking back, I suppose I may have come across as somewhat full of it. Then, when Rochelle Brady booted me on the shin because she said it was International Kick a Ginger Day, somehow, I got into just as much trouble for saying that I couldn't wait for it to be Slap a Slag Week.

My alarm started beeping at half six, but I’d already been awake for hours, the clock’s red digits taunting me in the dark. I listened out for Dad who was usually up and would sometimes bring me a cup of tea in bed, but the house was still and quiet. 

I slithered out of bed, pulled open the curtains and looked out onto Sycamore Grove.  The day that greeted me was grey and dreary, the pavements were wet and, as I stood staring out at the yellowing leaves on the trees, I could hear the pitter-patter of rain on the glass. 

Delivering papers at the crack of dawn was never fun, as I’m not remotely a morning person, but it put money in my pocket.  Dad had been going on for ages that I needed to earn some money.  Apparently, he’d started delivering papers each week when he was eleven to earn the cash required to purchase the latest game for his Sinclair ZX Spectrum.  He claimed, rather extravagantly in my opinion, that by the time he turned twelve he’d taken on extra rounds and was up early, delivering papers every day except for Christmas Day, Boxing Day and Easter Sunday.

For months, I held out looking for a job, arguing that kids today couldn’t find work the way they could in the past.  I tried to convince Dad that, in the era of 24-hour television news and the Internet, no one had papers delivered anymore.  Unfortunately, Mum had caught me out when we stopped to buy milk in McColl’s on the way home from my drum lesson and she spotted a note in the window saying that they needed someone.  That weekend I posted my first bag of papers and more than a year later, I was still doing it.

The scene from the window reminded me that the autumn mornings had been getting darker over the last few weeks and spider season had arrived.  Every morning, I walked up customer’s paths wildly flailing my arms.  It might’ve looked like I was having a seizure, but this was to break the silky strands of web that were suspended at face level wherever I turned.  I hated spiders, having had a bad experience where I took a web full in the face.  Afterwards, I’d become convinced that the spider had crawled up into my ear canal to nest.  I was sure that the prickling sensation in my ear was the baby spiders hatching and I kept making Mum check; I didn't take chances anymore.

I got dressed into the same blue jeans and white T-shirt that I’d changed into when I arrived home from school the previous evening; my uniform had been dripping wet and I’d been chilled to the bone.  I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.  In the mirror, my face looked pale and there were bags under my eyes.  As was always the case when I woke up, my hair was sticking up like I’d received some huge electric shock.  I went about my usual routine of taming it and getting it into some kind of order; even though I was ginger, it was still important to, at least, try to look cool.

I tiptoed down the stairs, careful to avoid the third step down that’d creaked since forever.  As I crossed the pitch-black hallway and opened the door to the kitchen, a shape in the darkness stirred into life and bundled towards me, jumping up and woofing excitedly.  It was Herbie, our black cockapoo.  I knelt beside him, wrapped my arms around his neck and he tried to lick my face.  Following the events of the evening before, I felt sick even thinking about the day ahead, but being close to Herbie made me feel a bit better.  

***

I’d left school, late and alone; it wasn’t long until I’d heard shouts of abuse directed at me from behind.

‘Oi ginner!’

‘Get back here you bloodnut’

I knew exactly who it was before I’d even turned round. Darren Baker, Toby Brown and Adam Abrahams had been charging towards me, malicious grins spread across their faces.  I knew I’d be in for a beating if they caught me so I’d set off down School Lane as fast as I could, before turning down toward the canal.  In hindsight, this’d been a mistake.

The towpath had been deserted, except for a few ducks bobbing up and down on the water.  As we’d chased along, I could hear them behind me, their footsteps echoing off the cobbles and onto the walls of the tunnel under the road.  One of them seemed to be getting closer and I’d stolen a glance behind to see Adam only a few metres behind me.  ‘When we catch you, you’re going in the water, Ginger Ninja’, he’d screamed.  My actual name was Joel Jones, but they never seemed to use this.  

I’d been beginning to get out of breath and there seemed to be no sign of the chasing boys tiring or being about to give up on me.  I’d known that when they caught me there was going to be a fair amount of pain coming my way before they, most likely, drowned me in the canal.  In desperation, I’d made the only sensible decision available and darted sharply to my right, leaping over the edge and out into the water as far away from the towpath as I could manage. 

I’d forgotten to breathe out through my nose as I went into the murky water and had felt the cold bubbles fizzing up into my sinuses.  I was only under for a second before I’d surfaced to see the three boys, already taking videos on their phones, ready to share my humiliation online.

‘Don’t worry Ginger Nuts,’ Darren goaded.  ‘We can finish things off tomorrow at school.’  They’d turned and started to walk away, the echoes of their amusement ricocheting around under the bridge like ginger-hating, bouncy balls of laughter, taunting me. Feeling too cold to go bright red, like I usually do when I’m embarrassed, I’d gratefully accepted the offer of a hand out of the water from an old bloke who was working on his allotment next to the canal. Reluctant to run into anyone on the way home in the state I was in, I’d also accepted his offer of a cup of tea in his shed and the opportunity to dry out a bit next to his gas heater.

The pensioner had introduced himself as Bill and rattled on about how lots of things were different now from how they were in his day, but some things had stayed the same. I’d asked what he meant and he’d told me that he’d been in a spot of bother himself more than a few times in his youth for being ginger. I’d looked up from my tea and studied him, my gaze lingering on the shiny crown of his head.  He’d simply shrugged and said that even gingers go bald eventually.

***

As I remembered yesterday’s watery shame and considered the number of YouTube hits Darren’s video had already achieved, I felt Herbie’s rough tongue on my face.  I pushed him away, before giving him a final pat and a slice of ham from the fridge.  I grabbed my stuff, put my black jacket on and headed out the back door to get my bike.  Up until recently, Herbie had been coming with me each morning to deliver the day’s news to the residents of Chester.  However, following an unfortunate incident with Mrs Haynes-Thompson’s immaculate lawn and an even more unfortunate lack of poo-bags, I’d been leaving him at home.  I closed the door on a puzzled Herbie and he clawed at it; I suppose he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong and was probably wondering where the next slice of ham would come from. 

I unlocked my bike, slung my newspaper bag over my shoulder and headed out the back gate into the alley that ran down the back of the houses in Sycamore Grove.  I turned right, cycling past the McEvoys’ house and out onto the road, planning to be at McColl’s in ten minutes. 

Although visitors to Chester often banged on about what a charming city it was, when you were a resident, you also noticed the everyday bits that the tourists somehow seemed to overlook.  It may well’ve been steeped in history, with its Roman walls and wonky Tudor buildings in the cobbled city centre, but I loved the fact that it was small enough to get from one side of the city to the other, on your bike, in five minutes flat, assuming that the races weren’t on.  Shame it always seemed to be raining.

It was still drizzling slightly as I cycled but it wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. There was an odd silence, like the rain had washed away all sounds of life. It was a strange emptiness of noise, no cold car engines turning over and no annoying whistling from our local, Moreton Dairy milkman. The streetlights were no longer on, but the daylight hadn’t really broken through the cloud.  Chestnut Avenue was usually quiet as dawn broke, but that morning it seemed dead. I couldn’t see a single dog-walker ambling to the park, no early morning joggers jumping through puddles from the overnight rain, and none of the other kids heading out to deliver papers.  Even Old Tom, the homeless guy who usually said good morning to anyone willing to give him the time of day, was still asleep on the park bench that he called home.

Pedalling along Chestnut Avenue, trying not to think of what awaited me at school, the overpowering smell of petrol reached me.  Even this warning couldn’t prepare me for the feeling of dread in my stomach that rose, like bile, when I saw the car.   It was blocking the road ahead and, although I could immediately see that I was arriving at the scene of a very serious accident, the world seemed frozen and still, like it’d turned its back and was ignoring what was happening.

Getting closer, it was clear that a blue Citroen had been involved in a major collision with a yellow Volkswagen parked on the street.  The bonnet of the Picasso was concertinaed from the crash and smoke was lilting upwards.  It must’ve been going quite fast, certainly faster than the thirty miles per hour speed limit, given the damage.  I pulled up and looked around to see who was attending to the crash, but the street was empty and lifeless.  Dropping my bike to the ground, I approached, worried that the car might catch fire with smoke coming from the engine and petrol spilling out.  However, with no one else on the scene, I realised it was down to me to check if anyone was hurt.

There was a woman behind the wheel, unconscious against the air bag that’d inflated to cushion her from the impact.  She had long, dark hair that hung down limply over her face.  I called out to her to see if she could hear me, but there was no response.  Putting aside thoughts of the car exploding and moving closer, I tried the driver’s door and was amazed to find that it still opened. 

When I looked inside, my stomach turned as I could see that the poor woman’s legs were crushed under the shattered dashboard and there were rivulets of blood seeping through her jeans.  She’d been alone and injured in the car for I didn't know how long. I started trying to remember the basics of first aid from the course I’d done at school the previous summer in Year 9, but nothing I could think of seemed of any use.

I spoke to her again, but it clearly didn’t register.  I put my hand against her neck trying to feel for a pulse like they do on the TV, but she felt cold to my touch.  I put my face close to hers to see if I could feel her breath, but again, nothing. 

I backed out of the car and shouted, ‘Help!’ but my voice came out in a croak.  I yelled again, ‘Help!  There’s been an accident. Somebody help,’ louder this time.  The rain dampened my voice, suffocating the sound, but there was something else.  Something was odd about the world around me.  It was like that time we’d visited a film set with one of Dad’s friends, who worked in movies.  We’d walked around with our mouths hanging open in awe, but at the same time it’d seemed to lack something, a depth, a soul, like there was nothing beyond the facade.  This is what the world surrounding this poor woman in the crashed car felt like today. It all seemed real, but it somehow wasn’t. 

Where was everyone?

Why hadn’t anyone heard the crash?

What the hell was going on?

At this point, it dawned on me that it was me who needed to call for an ambulance.  This seemed ironic as Mum was always checking that I had my phone when I was going out in case of an emergency and yet I hadn’t thought to use it.

I pulled my mobile out of my coat pocket and was relieved to see that the signal showed three bars.  I tapped 999 and put the phone to my ear, waiting for someone to answer. 

It rang a couple of times and I started to get impatient.  I hadn’t needed to dial the emergency services before, but I thought that the operators would’ve answered calls within seconds.  The phone continued to ring for what seemed like ages, before the line clicked and a recorded message started to play.

‘We are experiencing an unusually high call volume at this present time and all of our operators are busy,’ said a recording of a woman, who sounded like she might’ve been a member of the royal family.  ‘Your call is important to us.  Please continue to hold, or visit our website for further advice.’

I stared into the woman’s face, trying to remember what advert the classical music playing in my ear was from, when a fly landed on her nose.  ‘Buggar this!’ I muttered, hanging up and sprinting for my bike to head for home as fast as I could.

Chapter Two: Bedshaped

Taylor – 06:45

It was a school day and I woke up at the usual time of quarter to seven.  I’d trained my body clock well and didn’t need an alarm or a parent to wake me.  My thoughts switched to the unusual meteorological conditions that I’d witnessed the previous evening and I opened my curtains to see what the day was looking like; it was dull and overcast with more than a hint of rain.

The night before had suggested so much more.  My friend, Jonathan McEvoy, and I had gone to the park to attempt to launch the latest proto-type rocket that I’d been working on.  It hadn’t been a great success; despite a lot of smoke and sparks it couldn’t get sufficient thrust to escape the pull of Earth’s gravity and get off the ground. I’d made a mental note to increase the percentage of potassium nitrate over sugar to sixty per cent and purchase icing, as opposed to granulated sugar, next time.  Collecting up the debris from the rocket trial, I’d noticed that the sky had been a vivid red.  I knew that the saying, ‘red sky at night, shepherds’ delight,’ was often true (it was linked to dust and small particles becoming trapped in the atmosphere by high pressure) and did mean that fair weather was likely to be heading your way.

I pulled on my dressing gown and headed downstairs.  When I stepped into the hallway, Herbie spotted me and began barking wildly, his back legs sliding around excitedly and his furry body waggling with delight.   Apart from the dog, the house seemed unusually still; this was a surprise as Dad would normally have been up marking books or planning Maths lessons for ignorant children who, foolishly, couldn’t see the point of algebra. 

Herbie was my favourite family member and, therefore, the individual that I loved most in the world; I still felt bad about the recent rocket car incident.  I’d filled a cardboard tube with the homemade rocket fuel that I’d been working on and taped it to a car made from my younger brother Logan’s Lego.  I launched this experimental vehicle in the back-alley behind our house with Jonathan.  It was a disaster; I’d miscalculated how fast it would accelerate and had also forgotten to close the back gate.  Poor Herbie had wandered out to see what was going on and the rocket car had fizzled straight for him, shooting between his legs and smashing into one of the neighbours’ garden walls.  Herbie had done an instant poo during this unfortunate event and run squealing back into the house. 

Herbie wagged his way into the kitchen at my side and I checked the water in the kettle, pouring some away; there was no need to waste energy heating more water than I required for my morning cup of coffee.  I hunted around for the TV remote, eventually finding it under the newspaper on the table, and flicked on the small flat screen on the wall.  While I waited for BBC Breakfast News to appear, I went to the fridge and pulled out a slice of ham.  ‘Would the precious boy like Taylor to give him a meaty treat?’ I asked Herbie.  He raised his paw to me, which I knew was his way of saying yes, and then gently gobbled the processed pork product out of my hand.

I was keen to see Carol Kirkwood, the BBC weather presenter, deliver her verdict on the day ahead and to see if any of her ‘weather-watchers’ had sent in photos of the striking sky that I’d seen.  The TV had warmed up, but strangely, the news didn’t seem to be showing.  Instead there was a white background with a transparent red globe with the BBC News logo in front, but the programme wasn’t broadcasting.  Before I could think about what this might mean, the back door burst open behind me and my older brother Joel stormed in, looking upset and glancing about the kitchen frantically.  ‘Where’s Dad?’ he demanded.

This was the first interaction with my brother since he’d arrived home, soaking wet, the night before.  He’d been hammering at the front door and being nearest, I’d let him in.  He’d been angry about something and, as he pushed his way through the door, he’d whacked me on the back of my head with his wet school bag and called me a ginger whinger.  This made little sense because we both had ginger hair and up until that moment I’d not been whinging about anything.  However, Joel’s aggressive behaviour did cause some pain and made me feel both angry and upset. 

My brother, Joel, was fourteen years and nine months old, a month short of three years older than me.  Due to puberty, he was growing increasingly tall and his shoulders were broadening too.  I was twenty-eight centimetres shorter and had a much slimmer build.  I would argue that this was because I prioritised eating healthily and ensured each day that I consumed at least seven portions of fruit and vegetables.  In contrast, I suspected that Joel had a diagnosable addiction to doughnuts.  He wasted over ten minutes every day, brushing and spraying his hair into a quiff.  I chose to keep mine cropped very short enabling me to get dried and dressed quickly after I’d showered, which I did every morning because good personal hygiene is very important.

‘Dad’s not up yet,’ I told Joel, who’d shoved his way past me.  ‘You’re back early,’ I suggested, thinking that if Joel had managed to finish his round already it might mean he’d finally reduced the time spent doing his hair.  I stood there waiting for a response, but he ignored me and went upstairs, two at a time, shouting for Mum and Dad as he went.  He seemed particularly agitated and not just in a teenage, ‘the world is so unfair’ kind of way.

I followed him on to the landing and asked what was up, but he ignored my question and barged into Mum and Dad’s room, without bothering to knock first.  Before I could go after him, Logan appeared from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes.  ‘What’s up?’ he asked and then yawned. 

Logan was two years and eight months younger than me, which made him nine and still at primary school.  He also had red hair, although his was quite thick and rather curly, making him look rather like a miniature lion.  I frequently referred to him as ‘the Little Git,’ having once overhead Dad call him this; I don’t know why Dad used this term as ‘git’ is derived from the word, ‘illegitimate,’ meaning, ‘born outside of marriage.’  If Logan was ‘a git’ (not that this was important in modern society) then Joel and I were too.

In our parents’ bedroom, we found Joel shaking Mum, shouting for her to wake up; Joel’s voice was cracking with emotion and he sounded desperate.  None of this should have been necessary as Mum was an incredibly light sleeper; the only other times I’d struggled to wake her were mornings after Friday night planning meetings with the school PTA when she tended to exceed the recommended daily alcohol intake for a woman, which, incidentally, was three units.

Joel seemed practically hysterical now as Mum still wouldn’t wake and what was more, Dad, lying next to her was oblivious too.   I started to think that maybe Joel had lost the plot, so I grabbed his arm to stop him shaking Mum, but he pushed me hard, really hard.  I fell backwards, banging my head against the wall and Logan started shouting at him to stop. 

Joel moved around the bed.  He just stood and stared at Dad, his eyes wide and terrified. I could see his body shaking; he was like someone on the highest diving board daring himself to jump, but finding his will slowly ebbing away.  I watched him as he tried to decide what to do next.  Then, Joel slapped our Dad.

At another time, this might’ve been something that he’d taken great satisfaction in, but not now.  It seemed unreal; we all watched, waiting, hoping to see Dad go mad.  When Dad just lay there not moving Joel started crying.

In a daze, I picked myself up off the floor and, keeping my distance from him in case he decided to shove me again, quietly almost in a whisper, I asked, ‘Joel, what is going on?’

It was difficult to understand what he said, in between the great, heaving sobs coming from him.  I could make out, ‘Car crash’, ‘Dead woman’, ‘999’, ‘No reply’ and ‘They’re dead too.’  The last words hung in the air in front of me, as if branded into the very molecules of space between us, like when you stare at the sun and it’s still there when you look away. He was referring to Mum and Dad; Joel was saying that Mum and Dad were dead.

I had to stop myself getting carried away by this hysteria.  Mum and Dad were both in their forties and healthy; the chances of them both dying together in their sleep with no prior indicators was, I estimated, less than one in a hundred thousand.  I climbed into bed next to Mum and put my arms around her; she was warm.  I put my head on her chest and could feel her take the regular breaths of someone sleeping deeply. I turned to Joel and said, ‘She’s alive; just asleep.’

‘Then why won’t she wake up?’ he asked me.

‘Since when have sleep disorders been one of my areas of expertise?’ I responded and then moved over to check Dad.  He was fine too and snoring gently.  ‘They’ve not got a temperature or a fever.  I suppose they could have some kind of bug that causes you to enter a deep sleep,’ I hypothesised.  Logan climbed into bed next to Mum and started gently stroking her forehead and whispering in her ear to wake up, but there was no response.  ‘We need to get help,’ I told Joel, ‘and anyway, what did you mean about a dead woman?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he snapped irritably.  ‘Mum and Dad are the priority now.’  I was about to suggest that being dead probably mattered to the woman that he was referring to, but then realised that it actually wouldn’t.

Logan piped up that we needed to dial 999 straightaway and ran to get the phone from downstairs.  He came immediately back with it and brought Herbie too, bounding along beside him.  Herbie jumped straight up on the bed and proceeded to lick Dad’s face.

Logan passed the phone to me and I passed it on to Joel and told him that he should phone, as he was the eldest.  As he dialled, he explained to us that he’d been trying to get help for an injured woman, quite possibly dead, in a crashed car around the corner. He said he’d already tried to call an ambulance from his mobile, but there was no reply.  ‘It’s the same here,’ he declared, slowly taking the phone away from his ear as if giving the operator a few more seconds to pick up.

I’d watched numerous videos on YouTube about recent British history and this struck me as extremely strange.  The last time that the emergency service network had been overwhelmed was in 1996 when the England football team lost the semi-final of the Euro 96 tournament to Germany on penalties.  This had led to disappointed fans, or lager louts as they were called at the time, rampaging around town centres causing trouble up and down the country, but apparently not in Scotland. 

The occasion before that was in 1987 when the UK had been hit by a hurricane.  I felt sorry for the poor weatherman, Michael Fish, who had been replayed countless times on TV over the years, dismissing the woman who had phoned the BBC to warn them that there was a hurricane on the way.  ‘Don't worry; there isn’t,’ Michael Fish had confidently told the nation.   I let this be a lesson to me that it was best not to appear certain of something if you weren’t.

What Joel had said about no one answering our 999-call didn’t make sense; there had been no significant football matches the evening before and I hadn’t heard any strong wind rattling the windows since I’d been up.  I could think of no reason why the system wouldn’t be working, but at the back of my mind the failure of BBC Breakfast to be broadcasting must have been gnawing away in my subconscious.  ‘We should get Mark to check them over,’ I suggested.

Jonathan McEvoy’s dad, Mark, was a nurse at the Countess of Chester Hospital.  He had the most well-equipped medicine cabinet you could ever imagine.  I had my suspicions that inside that cabinet was a remarkable and abundant collection of ingredients for experimentations of the rocket car nature, which is why, I think, he always kept it locked. 

Mark, his wife Helen and their two boys Jonathan and Thomas, lived around the corner on Chestnut Avenue.  Although we weren’t technically next-door neighbours, the side of our garden backed up against the end of theirs.  Years ago, Dad and Mark had built matching steps out of wood for both sides of the wall so that we could come and go into each other’s gardens at the back, as opposed to going out the front door and round on the road.    Although we’d all grown a lot since then and it was an increasingly tight squeeze to get between the wall of the garage and the shed, we were all still able to fit through, even Joel. 

Although getting Mark was my idea, Joel seemed to take charge at this point.  He said that he and Logan would stay with Mum and Dad and that I should go and wake the McEvoys and tell them what’d happened.  I ran downstairs, slipped on my Crocs and headed out the back door, nearly tripping over Joel’s bike which he’d left blocking the path.  It felt slightly inappropriate that I was going to visit the neighbours in my pyjamas and dressing gown when it wasn’t a sleepover.  Herbie followed me out, indicating that he wanted to come, so I patted my leg and he trotted along at my side. 

I squeezed along between the shed and the garage, breaking the strands of web across the path, up the worn, wooden steps, over the wall and into the McEvoys’ garden.  While Herbie started sniffing around and cocking his leg, I went straight to the back door.  I’d expected the kitchen lights to be on as Mark was an early riser but the house was dark and the door was locked when I tried it.  I started knocking on the glass but no one came to let me in. 

I let myself through