The Blue Man: Strange Gods, #2

By Mark Peckett

Micky and Ysabel are an ordinary brother and sister living ordinary lives until Micky helps a homeless man and discovers a mysterious ring.  Their adventures take them to the land of gods and monsters and the far distant past.  Only if they put right what once went wrong can they save themselves …

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224876808

Book preview

For Annabelle,

when she’s old enough to read it!

PART ONE:

BIRMINGHAM

CHAPTER ONE

The Advent Of Mabon

AT 3.45PM precisely the school bell rang like a fire alarm and Micky Finn came flying out of the gates of Whitesmoor Academy, his bag bouncing on his back.

He ran down the road without looking back, heading for the woods behind the school. He cut across the patch of waste land, jumped the stream with a shopping trolley in it and made it to the trees. He dived into a bush and crouched there hiding, gasping for breath.

It wasn’t his fault that he had spilled water on Vinnie Baines!  Someone behind him had bumped him and his tray had tilted and his full tumbler had gone all over Baines’s head.

Baines leaped up so fast his chair turned over, eyes blazing, and grabbed Micky by the blazer.

Luckily a teacher had seen what was happening – the Year 11 bully beating up a little Year 7 boy – and dragged Baines off him. Micky was sent, trembling and white-faced under his freckles and curly red hair, to finish his lunch in the Head of Year’s office. He couldn’t eat. He felt sick.

He stayed there until the end of lunch time and then tried to sneak to his lesson, hiding round corners and ducking behind pillars. Someone had whispered to him:

Baines is looking for you.  And someone else had said:

You’re dead, mate.

He didn’t know how he got to the end of the day. He didn’t listen to the teachers. He couldn’t think. He thought everyone was staring at him and he felt like his heart was going to jump out of his mouth.

When the last lesson came, he sat at the desk closest to the door. With five minutes to go he started to pack his things quickly into his bag. He watched the minute hand on the clock creep round to the nine, and he was out of the door before the bell stopped ringing.

He thought he could hear laughing behind him, but he didn’t care. He tore round a corner and ran straight into the fat belly of the school caretaker, Mr. Doherty. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, shiny brogues and a blue cotton railway engineer’s jacket, the buttons done up and straining, and he smelled of oil and tobacco. Micky bounced off him and Doherty grabbed him by the shoulder.

Now then, growled Doherty.

Sorry, Mr. Doherty, gasped Micky, squirming around and trying to look over his shoulder. I’m in a hurry.

No excuse for running in the corridor. Doherty held and studied him, turning him this way and that. He had a big face, with a red nose and watery eyes. Wait a minute – you’re the boy who soaked Baines, ain’tcha?  He’s gonna give ya such a batterin’ when he gets ya!  Well, you had better get runnin’ then, han’tcha?

And he gave Micky a shove that almost sent him sprawling. And he could hear laughter behind him now all right – the cruel, wheezy laugh that was bubbling up out of Doherty’s throat.

And now he was hiding in a bush, holding his breath.

He could hear them coming.

His mother always said bullies weren’t born into this world, they were raised. She said their parents were careless and we should try to understand them. But she hadn’t met Baines.

There was a thunder of feet, shouting and laughing. It was hard, cruel laughter.

Come out, come out, wherever you are!

He scrambled further into the bushes and suddenly came out into an Aladdin’s cave!  The branches of the bushes around him and above him were weaved together like walls and a roof. Hanging from the branches and woven into them were all sorts of trinkets – bent spoons and forks and cogs hung by string and tinkled together, and bits of broken bottle spun lazily, sending rainbows swirling around him. Woven into the walls were strips of silver foil and pieces of coloured cellophane.

The floor was lined with dry grass and bracken that smelled fragrant as he disturbed it by shuffling around. On an old wooden fruit box sat a chipped china cup and a tin plate with a fork and a spoon on it, and in the box was a can of baked beans, a tin of sardines and a bottle of water. Spread out next to it was on old ripped sleeping bag and lying on it was a tattered paperback called A Brief History of ... something, but he didn’t have time to read it as a stone tore past his ear and thudded into a tree behind him. Micky gasped and squeezed himself up into a tight little ball, trying to sink into the earth. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears, he felt dizzy and thought he was going to faint. He stared hard at the ground between his knees.

When the world stopped spinning, everything was quiet. Baines and his gang had gone. They hadn’t found him. Hot tears burned his eyes and his chest shuddered when he breathed. At least he could go home now. He would worry about tomorrow later.

He crept out of the bush and straightened up stiffly.

Gotcha!

A hard hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. He only came up to Baines’s chest. Baines bent down and thrust his face into Micky’s. His eyes were blazing.

I’m going to rip your throat out! he spat.

It wasn’t my fault. Micky tried frantically to explain. Someone pushed me  -

You ruined my trainers and now you’re gonna pay.

I’m sorry,  I’m sorry, pleaded Micky. Don’t. Don’t.

He tried to wriggle free, but Baines just held him tighter. It hurt.

Shut up!

Micky could feel Baines’s hot breath on his face. It smelled of stale cigarettes. He turned his head away and he could see Baines’s gang. He didn’t know their names. One of them was no bigger than Micky, with a face like a rat. He was jumping up and down with excitement. The other one was big and stupid-looking, breathing with his mouth open.

Micky gave up. He sagged in Baines’s arms. They would beat him up and his clothes would get dirty and torn. They would throw his bag in a tree and then he could go home and hide in his room until his Mamá got back. When she asked about the cuts and bruises and the ripped clothes he would lie and say he fell and turn away quickly before she saw the tears in his eyes.

You like water, don’t you? Baines hissed in his ear. I’m gonna give you water. Spud!  Ratso!  Grab his legs!

Micky’s feet were jerked from under him and suddenly he was flat on his back, staring up at three red and twisted faces.

One! The faces swung out of sight.

Two! He could see the tops of the trees.

Three!

And for a moment he was weightless, soaring through the air. The sky and the clouds and the sun rushed towards him and then fell away as the earth grabbed him and pulled him back and punched him between the shoulder blades.

He had landed in the stream and filthy water splashed over his face and soaked into his clothes. He struggled to his feet, spluttering and gasping for breath. He knew that worse was to come and he was powerless to stop it.

And then there was a terrific roar, and the space that was left when it stopped sucked all the noise out of the world. Bit by bit, it came back – he heard the water trickling round his ankles, the rustling of the trees and the birds twittering in them and, rubbing the water out of his eyes, he peered around carefully.

Baines, Spud and Ratso were frozen like statues, but they weren’t looking at him. They were looking at a ragged man with wild black hair, dirty skin and crazy blue eyes, his teeth showing yellow through his bushy black beard. His clothes were tattered and dirty, his shoes without laces and his coat flapping around him like bats’ wings. He wasn’t very big, smaller than Spud, but somehow he seemed to fill the clearing they were in.

Then Baines laughed. He bent down, picked up a stone that barely fitted his hand and flung it at the man. It struck him a glancing blow on his temple with a solid thwok and he dropped to his hands and knees. For a moment, the boys were shocked into silence, but when they saw him rocking like a wounded animal, they laughed raucously and circled him.

They weren’t ready for it when he suddenly rose to his feet, arms raised and roaring like a bear. One look at his face, the blood from the ragged gash on his forehead running down over his eye and his nose and into his mouth, painting his teeth and they dropped the sticks and stones they were holding that they thought they were going to batter him with and they took to their heels.

The man watched them go, and then, wiping his face with the back of his hand, he roared with laughter.

Micky was frozen to the spot as the man turned back and fixed him with the piercing blue eye that wasn’t smeared with blood and dirt. He tried to scooch backwards on his bottom, but his back him a tree trunk. The man approached him.

And held out a dirty brown hand with filthy fingernails. Are you all right? he said.

Micky pushed himself up against the tree. He nodded, but he wasn’t sure if he didn’t feel as scared now as when Baines grabbed him.

My name is Mabon.  The gravelly voice had a soft Irish burr and his breath had a sweet stink to it, the kind he was used to when his Da came back from the pub and kissed him good night. When his Da was still at home to kiss him. The accent and the smell hit him in the chest like a fist, and he didn’t really listen to the name.

Malcolm?

The man shrugged. Aye, close enough. What’s yours?

Micky. Micky Finn.

Micky dried his hand on his trousers and held it out. He’d remembered his manners. The man’s hand was big and enveloped his, warm, dry and rough, like a piece of leather. Micky nodded at Malcolm’s head.

Does it hurt?

What? Malcolm touched his head and looked at the blood that came away on his fingers. This?  Oh, I’ve had worse.  He took out a dirty handkerchief, wetted it in the stream and dabbed at his wound. There, better already.

Do you live here?

Ah, you found my hideaway.

I didn’t mean to, said Micky in a panic. I wasn’t going to steal anything. I was just -

Don’t worry. I know. You were hiding from those bullies.

Micky suddenly remembered what had happened to him and looked down at himself. His clothes were soaked, his trousers were torn and the pocket of his blazer was ripped. He realised he was cold and he started shaking, his teeth chattering. Or perhaps it was fright. Mamá will go mental when she sees this.

Here, lad, said Malcolm, kindly, taking off his coat and draping it round Micky’s shoulders. It smelled musty and peppery, like an animal’s fur, not like something off the back of a tramp. Micky snuggled into it. He saw some faded and blurred tattoos writhing up Malcolm’s arms and vanishing under the unravelling sleeves of a jumper. Mothers are more understanding than you think. They worry about you all the time, and sometimes it makes them seem angry, but it’s just because they care too much. Come on – we should get you home before you catch your death.

What about Baines? said Micky, looking round, worried.

Who?  Oh, the bullies!  Malcolm laughed. It was a deep, chesty laugh that gurgled up through his throat. Oh, I don’t think we’ll be seeing them for a while. That kind talk a good fight, but they run at the sight of a bit of blood.

You mean -

Oh aye, I let the rock hit me. I needed something to scare them.

Micky looked at Malcolm out of the corner of his eye. This man who wanted to take him home, with the ragged gash on his forehead, was crazy.

As they walked, Micky’s mind was racing. He already felt everyone they passed was looking at them, the schoolboy with ripped trousers wearing a tramp’s coat, and the tramp walking along beside him. What would the neighbours think when they saw the pair of them turn up at his front door, and what would Ysabel say when she saw him, and would they tell his Mamá?

I said, do those bullies trouble you much at school? Malcolm had raised his voice when Micky hadn’t answered him.

Micky shrugged. Not much. We just try to stay out of their way.

Don’t the teachers do anything?

Honestly, I think they’re as scared of him as we are. His Da’s been in prison – at least that’s what everyone says, so the teachers only deal with him if they have to. They don’t want his Da coming up the school.

Sounds like someone needs teaching a lesson, Malcolm grunted, and Micky sneered.

Oh yes, and then we all live happily ever after. That’s a good story. Do you know any more? Like the one where my Da is still at home and my Mamá isn’t angry all the time.

Malcolm stopped and stared at him. The blue eyes burned into his with a cold fire until he looked away uncomfortably.

There’s nothing wrong with stories, boy, Malcolm said seriously. All that history and science and religion you learn at school – it’s all just stories that people believe in. Did you know people used to think that the world was flat?

Yeah, but that’s just people making stuff up to explain what they didn’t understand.

And what’s your science then?

Micky didn’t have an answer.

It’s belief that gives things their strength, Micky boy.

Micky felt a shiver run up his back, down his throat and clutched at his heart. That’s just what his Da had called him. He tried to shake it off. Perhaps it was just an Irish thing. He had to stop letting this crazy tramp suck him in and think about how he could ditch him before he got home. But Malcolm was still droning on.

Imagine if everything you believe isn’t true. Imagine if all time was happening right now – the past, the present and the future, all at the same time. And the only reason you can’t see it is because if you did, it would blow your mind!

Yeah, right – look, Malcolm, it’s not that I’m not grateful or anything, but I think I’m all right now, so I’ll just give you your coat back and go home, if that’s okay with you.

Malcolm chuckled and carried on walking by his side. Ah, you’re ashamed of me. You’re worried about the neighbours. And – Malcolm tipped his head on one side and squinted at Micky. He tapped his nose. – what your Mamá will think. And – He stroked his beard. – what your sister will think.

Micky stopped dead in his tracks. For the second time in a minute, he felt like his heart had exploded. How did you –

I told you, it’s all to do with the way you look at Time.  And it sounded like he said it with a capital letter.

Or you’ve been stalking me. Hanging around outside the school and my house, watching me, thought Micky. But why?  No idea!  But he shouldn’t just be walking away from this crazy man – he should run.

So he ran.

Sorry, he shouted over his shoulder, shedding the coat as he went, got to go now!  Thanks for the coat and everything!

He made it home by ducking down alleys and passages he didn’t usually take, but he didn’t want the man he called Malcolm following him and he didn’t want to bump into Baines again. His hand was shaking so much he could hardly get the key into the lock. He slammed the door behind him and collapsed against it, gasping for breath.

The house was empty. Even if he hadn’t known his Mamá was at work and Ysabel was at a friend’s, he could have told. It felt empty. It even smelled empty, as if the air hadn’t stirred all day and had settled with the dust on the floor.

He got up and hanged his coat and bag of the newel post and went upstairs to change. He could hide the torn pocket of his blazer easily enough, perhaps he could even fix it with Super Glue, but the rip in his trousers was a different matter. He took them off and stuffed them in the bottom of the wash basket. At least that way he’d put the problem off until Sunday and maybe he could come with a story by then.

He washed his face, to get rid of the mud and the tear stains that had tracked through it. In jeans and a t-shirt and a hoodie with a big yellow smiley face on it, he felt a bit better. He could start pretending that everything that had happened today hadn’t really. And maybe he could pretend he was sick tomorrow, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about anything until Wednesday.

Since Da left he’d done a lot of pretending that things hadn’t happened or weren’t going to happen.

He clumped downstairs into the kitchen. He wanted a big glass of cold pop, but you only got pop from the fridge or biscuits from the tin if you asked Mamá first, so he ran the cold tap until the water was really cold and filled a glass.

He was gulping it down when there was a knock at the front door. He froze. It wasn’t Mamá, and Ysabel came to the back door, so who was it?  He crept to the kitchen door and peeped round. Against the frosted half pane he could see a dark shape – dark hair, dark beard, dark coat. It was Malcolm!

He slunk back and hid under the kitchen table. Perhaps if he didn’t answer, he’d go away. The knocking turned into a banging and then a pounding. The neighbours would be coming out to see what was going on, and they’d phone the police, and Malcolm would be taken away. And then they’d tell his Mamá and he’d have to explain the crazy tramp as well as his torn uniform. He curled up really small and whispered, Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

And then it stopped. He waited for a couple of minutes. He couldn’t hear any raised voices, or police sirens. Micky breathed a sigh of relief and uncurled and eased himself out from under the table, looked up and found himself staring full into the face of Malcolm, who was peering at him through the kitchen window.

CHAPTER TWO

The Haunting of Micky

MICKY opened the kitchen door and hurried Malcolm inside. He peeped outside to see if the neighbours had noticed anything, but all was quiet. When he looked back inside, Malcolm was prowling round, opening drawers and cupboards.

What are you doing? he asked, exasperated.

I can’t remember the last time I was inside a house, Micky boy, said Malcolm. I was just finding my feet.

Micky pointed him towards a chair at the table to stop him moving, or going any further into the house. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you something to eat?

Well, that would be splendid, young man. Malcolm sat on the chair and placed his hands on his knees for all the world looking like a king sitting on his throne and surveying his subjects.

Micky quickly made him a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich. He put it in front of Malcolm, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a plan to get him out of the house before Ysabel or his Mamá came home.

Malcolm took a bite and gasped. He poked a finger and thumb in his mouth and pulled out a slice of tomato with a string of saliva.

What is this? he asked in wonder.

It’s a tomato, said Micky, puzzled. You mean you’ve never eaten a tomato before?

Malcolm turned the messy red slice over and over in front of his eyes, seeds and juice running down his fingers. It looks like a fruit, he said, but it tastes like a vegetable. Which is it?

Micky shrugged. It’s a vegetable, he said. You can eat it raw, or you can cook it – fry it or mash it up and make it into sauce.

Malcolm popped it back into his mouth and devoured the sandwich in great bites, leaving crumbs, bits of cheese and tomato seeds on his beard. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and then wiped his hand on his trousers. He sat back, belched loudly and sat back contentedly.

Thank you, Micky boy. A meal fit for a god. He looked around. Have you got something to wash it down with?

Water?

Malcolm frowned. Anything stronger?

I think we’ve got some Cola, said Micky.

He poured a little into a glass and pushed it across the table. Malcolm picked it up, swirled it around and sniffed it like wine, and then downed it in one. Very good! he said and banged the glass on the table and pushed it back. Micky filled it up, wondering how he was going to explain the empty bottle to Mamá – she always noticed everything.

Malcolm was sipping the Cola contentedly when Micky glanced at his watch and said, Look, I don’t want to hurry you or anything, but ...

Malcolm nodded understandingly. You’re worried what your mother will say if she comes in and finds me here. He stood up. Don’t you worry – Mabon was young once too.

Once he was on his feet, he looked down at his clothes. Would you look at the state of me?  Is there anywhere I could clean myself up a bit?

You could use the sink, said Micky, pointing.

Ah well now – I could do with a mirror as well to make myself presentable.

Micky sighed. Come on, he said, and led Malcolm up to the bathroom, trying to work out how he could possibly get him out of the house now. He showed him the bathroom and squatted on the stairs with his chin on his knees. He hadn’t got a clue what to do. Behind him he heard water being splashed around and gasps of pleasure and when the noise stopped, he looked hopelessly over his shoulder. He’d given up even trying to come up with a plan. Mamá would come home and all would break loose.

Malcolm’s hair was slicked back, his face was shiny red and he looked very pleased with himself. He’d pushed his sleeves up to wash himself and Micky could see the tattoos again. They seemed sharper and clearer somehow, not faint and blurred like they were before. Perhaps he’s just washed the dirt off, Micky thought.

Now then, I’ll be on my way, Micky -

Micky leaped to his feet. Great!

– there’s just one more thing.

Micky slumped. What now?

Well ‘tis like this. When I was defending you from that gang of bullies -

There were three of them, Micky mumbled.

When I was defending you, my clothes got a bit messed up. You wouldn’t be having any old clothes around you don’t want that might fit me?

It