Ugly Thirteen

By Chris Ward

Evil robots combine with time travel in this darkly comic science fiction tale from Chris Ward, acclaimed author of the Tube Riders series.

It came from the future … to be your best friend.

Life sucks for twelve-year-old James Newton. His bible-bashing mother wants to convert him, his teenage tempest of a sister wants to berate him, and his loudmouthed, womanising father just wants him to go away. School is no solace either, with sadistic bully Miles Craddock lurking around every corner.

James finds comfort in his collection of science fiction novels, but when something appears that could have stepped out of the pages of one of his beloved books, it seems too good to be true.

And it is.

Ugly Thirteen will be James's best friend. But the grinning robot from a thousand years in the future will be so, so much more….

For James Newton, a Christmas wish is about to turn into a nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AMMFA Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393727194

Book preview

Part I

James

1

Beautiful Morning

Christmas sucked.

In their own way, however, everyone seemed to be having more fun than James.

Dad had screamed at Mum that it was over for good this time, before marching out with a thorough slam of the door, probably into the arms of one of the floozies James had seen him with behind the back of Tesco in the staff car park.

Mum had taken the opportunity to start drinking—or continue drinking, depending on the circumstances leading up to Dad’s sudden blowout—and now sobbed into a cushion on the sofa while the King made some bland speech on the TV which certainly wouldn’t make her feel better. Lucy was ignoring everything, leering into her smartphone on the other sofa, no doubt messaging her boyfriend about whatever they might do when she sneaked out later tonight.

‘I just wanted things to be right this year,’ Mum was sobbing, a glass of red wine held at a precarious angle above the beige carpet which was already spotted with a couple of older stains. ‘I tried so hard. You understand that, don’t you?’

James gave a tired nod and muttered something he hoped would satisfy her. Under the Christmas tree—now leaning back against the wall—lay the presents Dad hadn’t kicked across the room. One label had flopped over at an angle James could read: James, love Mummy and Daddy xxx, attached to a large rectangular box that had rustled like the Lego he was sure it was during a secret inspection when it first appeared last week.

If he could only open it and disappear into his room, the day could be salvaged. He glanced up at Mum, who was staring drunkenly at the TV. Resting his hands on the carpet, he slid himself across the floor until he was in range, then stuck out a hand.

‘Oh, opening presents without us? That’s fair.’

Lucy was glaring at him from across the room, manicured brows looming over her curled lashes like a tsunami about to engulf a beach. James wanted to shout out that he’d figured the passcode on her phone, that he knew what her boyfriend was planning to eat and it had nothing to do with turkey, but Mum was probably too drunk to get between them before his sister’s claws began to cut and maim.

‘No, I wasn’t,’ was all he could say, the fight already gone.

‘Yes, you was! You was gonna open them and piss off to your room, leaving me stuck down here with her!’

‘Oi, mind your language!’ Mum perked up just long enough to say, before descending back into the glass and its seemingly echoing chamber of sobbing. ‘Oh, I knew this day would turn out like this. I just knew it.’

This day and most of the others, James wanted to say, but didn’t. Going back as long as he could remember.

‘I think I’ll walk Jack,’ he said, standing up. ‘He ate too much turkey.’

‘Well at least someone ate it!’ Mum wailed, the glass finally overturning to splatter the carpet with wine. James suppressed a groan, aware either he or Lucy had to make sure it was clean by the time Dad got back, probably tomorrow morning.

Jack was not a Jack Russell terrier as James’s parents had first thought, but actually a Scottie. Regardless of his misplaced name, he was the only member of the family whom James was ever happy to spend time with, and bounced out of his basket at the prospect of a walk.

Hooking up his lead to his collar, James headed down the drive, skirting around the dry patch where Dad’s car had been. Figuring it was Christmas Day and the chances of anyone else being around were as slim as they were likely to get, he set off for the park at the end of the street.

The council, clearly in ignorance of the worries of bullied kids, would never cut the hedges back, so James was unable to see if anyone else was in the park until he stepped right out into view. Luckily, today there wasn’t, so he let Jack off his lead to allow the dog to nose around the overflowing bins, and then sat down on a bench with a view of the distant sea over the hills to the west.

James liked looking at the sea. He liked to fantasise about going down to the docks at Plymouth and getting a job on a tanker and then just never coming back. At thirteen he was aware that life in whatever country was across that frothing grey expanse of water probably wasn’t a lot better than his own, but it could hardly be worse.

From a bin over by the swings, Jack gave a little whine. James got up and wandered over. The dog was pawing at a syringe lying in the grass next to the bin, hidden by a couple of ripped open crisp packets caught on bits of bramble. James sighed and pushed the dog away with his foot, then kicked the syringe a little deeper into the weeds, hopeful that the council would come and pick it up before any babies or little kids did.

‘Scavenging for Christmas presents?’

James let out a gasp and jumped, nearly crashing into the bin. He spun around, aware that he had let his guard down, that alone out here in the park he was at the mercy of whatever Christmas presents Miles Craddock had waiting for him.

Except it wasn’t Miles. It was Gillian.

‘You scared me,’ James said, wishing his heart would stop beating long enough to find strength for a smile.

‘Sorry, couldn’t resist.’ Gillian grinned. James couldn’t help notice how she looked prettier than usual today, her unruly ginger hair pushed down beneath a black woolly hat with a red bobble on top. She had a new spot next to her nose, and her face was flushed from the cold, the freckles retreating into patches of red, but the dark colour of the hat seemed to bring out the watery blue of her eyes.

‘What are you … doing—’

Gillian rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, all right, stop staring at me. I was actually on the way over to yours.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, yours. Are you listening?’

‘Sorry.’

Gillian shrugged. ‘I got you a present. Thought I’d deliver it. Dad’s watching Eastenders and eating his fourth or fifth heap of Christmas pudding. That what your lot are doing?’

‘Mum and Dad had a blowout. Mum starting drinking again while she was cooking and burned the turkey, so Dad threw a wobbly and walked out. Probably wanted the excuse anyway.’

Gillian grimaced and stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets. ‘Sucks, eh. Anyway, you might as well have it.’

She pulled a small wrapped rectangle out of her pocket and held it out. The paper was crinkled along the flat surfaces, indicating it was last years’, but James didn’t care. The neatness of the folds and the little bow made out of an old shoelace told him what effort had gone into it.

‘It’s a book,’ Gillian said.

‘Don’t tell me!’

‘Open it, then.’

James felt his cheeks flush. Under his arms he had broken out in a cold sweat, and he hoped his jacket would hide the smell. He took a step back, just in case.

‘Okay.’ He carefully broke the tape seal, folding the paper back, aware of her eyes on him. His mind jittered with what he would say if he didn’t like it, if he opened the last fold of paper to reveal a book he had no interest in, how he would fake it so as not to upset her—

A Pocket Guide to Robotics, 14 th Ed.

A broad smile broke across his face and he let the wrapping paper fall, forgotten. He turned the book over, marvelling at the jacket design, half a dozen robots, from those actively in use to more speculative imaginings.

‘Gillian—’

The girl shrugged. ‘Got it down the Oxfam on the high street. Doesn’t look used, does it? Probably didn’t have much love for it. Thought you might. Like it?’

James looked up. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Thanks?’ Her tone was cutting, but her smile told him everything. Sometimes he thought she knew him better than he knew himself … and that made him feel weird too.

‘Thanks. It’s awesome.’ A sudden hot flush hit him again, and he felt a bead of sweat dribble down the side of his face. ‘But I didn’t … I….’

Gillian rolled her eyes. ‘I know you didn’t. Doesn’t matter. We discussed it, didn’t we? I get to raid your SF Masterworks collection, take whatever I want on long term loan. I’m cool. Nice just to see you happy for once. Christmas sucks, doesn’t it?’

James shrugged. He wanted to say, not now, thanks to you, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he said, ‘Could always be better, I suppose.’

They stood awkwardly for a few more seconds, before Gillian turned and started walking away. ‘Well, I’ll swing round in a couple of days for my presents,’ she said, flashing James a smile.

‘Cool. Dad’s on a business trip over New Year, and Lucy’s never there when a party’s on, so it’ll just be me and Mum.’

‘Okay. Right, bye.’

He watched her go, heading up the path in the opposite direction, her house a couple of streets over across the estate. He felt this weird longing for her to look back, but she didn’t, although she did duck her head a little just before she headed out of sight, as though she wanted to but wouldn’t let herself. When she was gone, he shrugged and turned to look for Jack, who was cocking his leg on a patch of grass not far from a roundabout which no longer turned.

‘Better get back,’ he said, patting his knee to attract the dog, before slipping the book into his jacket pocket. No matter about the Lego. The book was so much better. His presents could sit under their fallen tree forevermore if he could only get past Mum and up to his room with the book.

Gillian had given it to him. Gillian, the dorky ginger girl with the face that didn’t seem to fit right, and with whom he had been friends since playschool. Gillian, who he knew so well that it transcended gender, even though she had looked nice today.

Which he didn’t want to think about.

‘Come on, Jack,’ he said, threading the dog’s lead around his collar before giving a cursory glance across the park in the direction of Suffolk Street, where Miles Craddock lived. Christmas was good for something, at least.

It had started to drizzle again as he turned on to his street. Dad’s car was still missing, and James didn’t need to think so hard to figure out what the old bastard was doing. Mum’s car was still there, and James hoped Lucy had hidden the keys in case she decided to go out looking for Dad. Perhaps Mum had done the decent thing all round and drunk herself to sleep.

As he approached the house, though, their street angling slightly left as the road rose uphill, an uneasy feeling came over him. He stopped, tugged Jack close to his feet and looked back over his shoulder.

Something wasn’t right. James half expected a rock to come flying out of somewhere, even though he was sure he had every possible hiding place on his street cleared. No sign of Craddock, so what was it?

He shrugged and started off again, tugging Jack along behind him. On Christmas Day the street was deserted, so maybe that was it. He was imagining things.

Then he saw it.

Sitting on the overgrown grass verge just a couple of metres from his parents’ driveway, was a box.

And not just any box.

It was wrapped in coloured paper.

Tugging Jack along behind him, James wandered over. The box was leaning over as though it had fallen off a passing lorry, leaving an indent in the verge, a smear of muck around its sides. The most startling thing was its size: had it been standing upright it would have reached to James’s waist. The second was that it didn’t appear to be wet. In fact, as he got closer, steam rose off the top as though it were hot enough to evaporate the miserable little raindrops as they fell.

James took a step closer, frowning as he noticed little Christmas designs on the paper, Father Christmases and reindeer and elves and candy canes. They were all faded, as though the present had been subjected to significant sunlight before being dumped here, and all had a slightly foreign look as though the paper was some knock-off made in an Asian factory by a company who had never seen any images of its subject material before.

He reached out to touch the box.

Jack growled, tugging backwards on his lead.

‘Steady, it’s all right,’ James said, tugging the dog forward. Jack continued his standoff, pulling away until James feared he might slip his lead. With a shrug he walked on past the box, heading for his house. It wasn’t his, and having clearly been dumped here it might not be something worth opening.

With another shrug, he turned away, heading up his drive to face whatever mayhem was going on inside.

2

A Flash of Light

Boxing Day morning and Dad still wasn’t back. As James crawled out of bed and headed downstairs, Lucy nearly ran him down as, already dressed, she headed for the front door.

‘Fucking get out of the way, you little shit,’ she spat at him, pushing past. James recoiled at the pungent perfume cloud so thick it watered his eyes. Then, in dumb awe, he watched from the bottom of the stairs as his sister rushed for the front door. From a box she had carried under her arm she pulled out high-heeled shoes, and as she leaned to put them on, he glimpsed more flesh than he felt comfortable seeing as her jacket rode up over her legs.

He looked away, but too late.

‘What are you perving at?’ Lucy snapped. ‘Jesus, can’t you just go and shag your little ginger friend already? Or do you want me to ask Tony if he has some magazines you can borrow?’

James gave a bemused shake of his head, unsure exactly what he was refusing, but aware that the storm that was his sister was in a hurry and would soon be out of his face. Shoes duly arranged, she pushed out of the front door, snapped ‘Loser!’ at him, then slammed the door on her way out.

With another shake of his head, James headed for the kitchen.

Despite the relentless, inherent violence of her words, on a level perhaps neither of them understood, Lucy did care for him, because she had tidied and separated the Christmas presents, stacking his neatly outside his bedroom door while he had been outside walking Jack, and none showed additional signs of being stamped on or hurled against a wall. Calmly underwhelming, he had smiled politely as he opened them in private, appreciative of his socks, new school blazer, and expensive Lego Creator kit of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He had hoped for the Empire State Building, but Mum would not have been able to pass up a brief retread into her religious fundamentalist past. It was still Lego, he reminded himself, despite the obvious connotations.

In the kitchen he made himself some toast and cornflakes then sat at the kitchen table from where he had a view out over the garden. A squirrel hung upside down from a bird feeder, desperately trying to thieve a few nuts soaked by the rain. James wished it luck as he ate, wondering if it felt any better about life than he did. At least the kitchen, with the radiator beneath the window, was warm, although with a thick coat of fur the squirrel probably took the win.

‘I’m sorry.’

James spat out a mouthful of cornflakes as he spun round on the chair. His mother stood in the doorway, her beige dressing gown a stark contrast to the jet black hair which hung over the blotchy red of her face. James spotted her eyes in there, darting about, perhaps worried her relapse had unleashed some devilish entity which was now crouching in a corner, ready to pounce and exact its retribution. Equally, as her eyes failed to locate his, he was unsure quite to whom she was apologising, whether it were he, herself, or someone else.

‘It was Christmas. I thought a little drop couldn’t hurt.’

She shuffled like a mental patient over to the table, pulled out a chair and flopped into it like a sudden landslide of human waste. Her elbows caught her from falling further than the tabletop, and it was from there that she met his eyes for the first time.

‘He went out for his drink. I thought a little drop for me wouldn’t hurt.’

James said nothing. To comment or respond in any way was to invite a conversation. He chewed his cornflakes like a cow munching grass, contemplating the train wreck that was his mother.

‘It wasn’t all burned. It was alright inside. I could have burned it sober too, you know.’

James rushed another spoonful of cornflakes to his mouth to avoid any momentary air space.

His mother sighed and brushed a fold of hair out of her eyes long enough to remind James that she had a face. ‘Where are my smokes?’

A direction question, but he still tried to get around it, by nodding at the pack of Marlboro Lights on the counter next to the sink.

‘So you’re not talking to me either?’

James gave an inward groan. He had strayed too far the other way, managing to offend her. He prayed for some kind of intervention—his father’s return, or his sister having forgotten something perhaps—but none came.

‘I’m eating my cornflakes, Mum.’

‘You can call it whatever you want, but I’m not stupid. You think I ruined Christmas, don’t you? You think it’s easy bringing up two kids with a husband who’s never there? Do you? I bet you think you’re a perfect child, but I’ll tell you, Sonny Jim, far from it. Honestly, with what I have to put up with from you three and that animal, it’s a miracle I don’t drink more.’

James didn’t bother to argue. She had slipped into active defensive mode, having correctly identified that with both Dad and Lucy out there was no one to shout her down, and with no school to flee to, James could do nothing but sit and absorb enemy fire until she had blasted herself out.

His cornflakes were long finished, and Mum was on her second Marlboro when she finally flapped a hand in his direction and muttered, ‘Oh, just go and play with your toys then. Leave me alone. I don’t care.’

James didn’t hesitate. He scooted out of the kitchen as fast as he could, up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. On a table by the window he had left the Lego with the box opened and the instructions spread out, in case his mother checked. He had spent most of his time since yesterday reading through Gillian’s gift, however. The book covered everything from a summary of robotics history up to some new techniques and practical information. He had twelve more days before school started, and was quite prepared to stay holed up with the book until then. School had its own pitfalls, but at least he could avoid his family.

Something crashed downstairs. James winced, wondering what his mother had knocked over. He was about to settle down with the book when he heard another crash. This time it sounded more distant, from outside.

He went to the window and peered out at the road. Overlooking his parents’ driveway, to his surprise, James saw the wrapped box was still there, sitting where it had been yesterday afternoon, at an angle in the grass verge. Three guys now stood around it, hands in the pockets of their duffel jackets, beanie hats pulled over their heads. James could tell just from the way they held themselves that they were trouble, probably heading for the nearest open pub.

One pointed at it, then patted another on the arm. James unlatched his window and pushed it open a crack to catch their voices.

‘….the fuck I know what it’s doing there.’ The man nudged it with his foot. ‘Fuck, look at that. Didn’t budge.’ He glanced over his shoulder at James’s house.

The second lifted his foot and stamped the box with the sole of his boot. ‘Ow, fuck! What the fuck … it’s like rock. Reckon we’re being pranked?’

The third turned to James’s house and hollered, ‘If you’re fucking with us, you cunts, we’ll come and fuck with you!’

The second laughed. ‘That told them. Come on, let’s fuck it up.’

He lifted his foot and begun a furious assault on the box. Apart from a few scuff marks on the outer paper, his attack had no effect. With one last violent stomp, though, a sudden flash of light filled the air and the man howled with pain. He hopped backwards then slumped to the ground, clutching his foot.

‘Motherfucker.’

‘Jed, what happened?’

‘Ow, shit. Fuck. Jesus Christ. Bastard stung me.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Jed looked up, and even over the distance James could see the fear in his face. ‘Mate, quick, help me up. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts, and it’s getting worse!’

The second hauled Jed up, but the first started laughing. ‘Jed, you’ve pissed yourself. Look at you, you fag.’

‘Fuck off.’

Jed swung a weak punch at his mate but lost his balance and slipped out of the second’s grip, crashing back to the ground.

‘Man, look at you, you look wankered already. You been on the lambrusco?’

‘It ain’t fucking funny, Dave. I can’t feel my leg!’

‘Come on, man—’

‘I can’t!’

‘Fuck this. This is fucked,’ the first said. ‘Nick, grab his other arm. We’ll get him round to mine.’

Between them, Dave and Nick managed to lift a limping Jed, and together, they staggered away down the street, cursing and shouting until they were out of sight. James stared at the box lying on the curb, his heart beating with excitement. It had quite clearly fought them off. He could only guess at what might be inside, but while the sensible thing would be to call the police or perhaps even the bomb squad, it was Christmas, and it couldn’t be coincidence that the box had appeared right outside his house. If the God his mother had renounced in order to first marry his abusive father and then become a barely functioning alcoholic really did exist, perhaps he had felt sorry for James and left him a rather special present.

Hardly wanting to take his eyes off it, he jumped off his chair and ran for the hall, ideas already circulating in his head for how he could claim the mystery box for his own.

3

A Scorched Grass Verge

‘I know it sounds stupid, but you’ll understand when you come over. It’s right outside.’

On the other end of the line, Gillian sighed. ‘All right. But after I help you, I want to go through your books. And no scrimping on how many I can have. I’ll decide. All right?’

James grinned. ‘Sure.’