Mask of the Jackal
Freaks - Wally the Undead
The First Sign of Trouble
My Enemy
Not Much Time
Twisted - Spy/Undercover Girl #5
Mask of the Jackal
(Excerpt. Chapter 5.)
I stand perfectly still and listen. There are no footsteps. No voices. Who's in here? It's not Ralph. He'd call out. Besides, he clears his throat all the time.
A creepy idea enters my head. This other person, this presence, is also waiting for a sound. From me.
There are three mummified bodies in this basement. They're thousands of years old. They can't hurt me. Yet pictures flash into my mind of skin torn from faces, of gaping holes where mouths should be.
I feel prickly sweat break out all over me. My scalp tingles.
People in Ancient Egypt believed their spirits survived death.
In the afterlife, each heart was weighed to test if that person had lived a good life. If the heart weighed less than a feather, the person could live forever. If it was too heavy, the heart was given to Ammut.
I imagine what she’d look like with her crocodile’s head. The front of her body was leopard and the back, hippopotamus. Ammut was known as the 'Eater of the Dead'.
It's only a myth. Not real. And yet, I have a strong urge to get out of this basement. Now.
If I run, the intruder will hear me. I take a deep breath to steady my pounding heart.
The first step is the hardest. It's difficult to breathe, and my feet feel as heavy as bricks.
I edge towards the door, then stop at a large packing crate to peek around it. There are only more crates and spilt packing straw.
Finally, I reach the door and turn the handle, hoping the hinges won't squeak and give me away.
I slip outside into the corridor. And run.
Pounding footsteps smash the silence. Someone's behind me!...
Freaks
(excerpt from Wally the Undead, one of the three stories in Freaks)
'What?' As Uncle Vlad bellowed, the chandelier above his head trembled. 'I knew no good would come of moving to this new land. ‘The boy is turning into a freak.'
Wally kept his head down. But he felt his uncle's eyes on him.
'You can change where you live and what you wear,' said Uncle Vlad. 'But you can never change what you are.'
I will, thought Wally. He wanted the kids at his new school to like him, to hang out with him at lunchtime, to argue about which football team was the best and who had the tastiest sandwiches. But if the kids at school knew the truth about him, they would be terrified. They would run away - or worse.
Wally thought of his father. No-one in the family talked about what had happened to him, except in whispers, in the dead of night. One full moon, he went out for a snack, but never came back.
After that, Wally's mother, Lilith, replaced the wooden furniture with metal. She wouldn't walk near paling fences, even if it meant taking the long way home. And Wally, Elvira and Mora never used wooden pencils to draw or write, only crayons. Most kids looked at pencils and thought about colouring in. Vampires looked at wooden pencils and thought about something entirely different.
'Don’t worry, Lilith,' said Uncle Vlad. 'I'll sort the boy out.'
Wally felt as though a heavy weight pressed on his chest. He didn't want Uncle Vlad to 'sort' him out. That was only going to make things worse. Wally wanted to be left alone.
A blast of wind hit the house. The front door swung open and hit the wall. Leaves scattered across the carpet. A candle flickered and went out...
The First Sign of Trouble
The first sign of trouble was so tiny he scarcely noticed. This was his private universe, reserved for his comfort and enjoyment. He did not welcome intrusion. Only occasional muffled sounds reminded him that he was not the only one in the cosmos. The steady flow and hum of his lifeline assured him that he was safely connected to the support system. His freedom extended only as far as the line allowed, but it was enough. Although his world did seem smaller than before. When the tremor occurred, he was puzzled. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
He could not work out what had caused the problem. But it was only a shudder, and it only happened once, so he shrugged off what he could not understand.
Eventually, there was a second tremor, and a third. The pump began to pulsate faster. Gradually the tremors grew into an earthquake. He could feel waves pushing and threatening, rather then soothing and supporting. He felt totally helpless. For the first time, he began to understand discomfort, then fear.
He had not moved much lately, yet now, he found himself being propelled forward without his consent. In fact, he had no notion where he might be going, or why.
His private universe became even smaller. The walls of his space closed in around him and began to crush him. He fought back, with fists and feet, but even that soon became impossible.
Something strong and hard wrapped around his body. He hated the feel of it on his face, but he couldn't free his hands to push the dreadful stuff away.
Suddenly he was propelled free of the suffocating tunnel, and out. Out into another world, of light and confusion and noise. He screamed. He wanted to go back to his home.
Then he heard a booming voice, "Congratulations, Jane. You have a son."
Martin John Davis had arrived.
My Enemy
We have become accustomed to living with danger, but I have an uncomfortable feeling about today's mission. My group is restless. They probably realise I am nervous. But we have no choice about venturing out. The weather is about to change and we do not have enough to eat. There is food nearby, but it is always a risk. Often we end up carrying back not just our supplies, but the bodies of our friends.
Their species and ours have been enemies for years. I do not know why it should be like this, but it is. They are a peculiar race and find us threatening. Once, we were intrigued by other civilisations and longed to increase our understanding. It was our dream. But that was long ago. Now we are hard pressed just to stay alive, and want to be left alone.
It is not like me to be so depressed. Perhaps I am growing old. My usefulness to the others will soon be over and, with things as they are, I know what my fate will be. Survival is everything. I shudder.
Concentrate, I must concentrate. Should we stay hidden or run? It is a difficult choice.
The enemy stalks through the underbrush not bothering to hide his presence. And why should he? He is stronger and he knows it.
A young warrior at the back of the pack bolts and heads for home. I cannot restrain him. He is too quick. It is undisciplined but I do not blame him. We all know the enemy has a new weapon, powerful and devastating. Our losses have been great
I consider retreating, but it is too late. I see him clearly now. Our enemy is big. Everything about these creatures is like that: big bodies, big egos and now - big weapons.
There are sounds behind us. I gesture to the others to stand still. They will not obey, but I try. After all, I am the leader.
Our enemy looks left and right, then advances relentlessly towards us. He hesitates, uncertain of our exact position. Our size sometimes works in our favour.
I know what will happen. But I cannot prevent it. Maybe it is fate. All I can do is meet my enemy with pride.
He stops. Stares. His voice booms out but he speaks in a foreign language and the words are lost. But his meaning is clear.
The troops scatter, panic-stricken. They have no means of protecting themselves against such a giant. Zig-zagging blindly, they run over the hillside.
I take one last look at the blue sky above our heads, then charge forward. Better to be mown down moving forward than backward. I race towards my enemy in a frenzy.
He roars.
Then I feel it. The very thing I most dread. It drifts down from above and coats my body, strangely cool at first, then white hot. There is no defence against chemical warfare. My legs cramp. I can run no further. My body quivers. I shake so badly I wonder whether I will actually break into pieces. But at least, this way, I might not be devoured by my family.
Unsure that he has finished the job, the enemy reaches down, his massive hand blocking out the light. I am helpless as he aims the can directly at my feeble body and squirts more poison.
The pain is unbearable. I am wracked with spasms. Against a cold-blooded enemy like this human, we ants have no hope.
Not Much Time
After all these months, I think I've finally worked it out. If I hadn't been so slow, I might have been able to do something. But now? My timing is terrible. There is no way I can prove it. Who would believe me?
My head aches. Will I scream, pretend to faint, shout my accusations? Or simply sit here, frozen with sickening dread?
Somewhere at the back of my mind is a sliver of doubt. What if I'm wrong? I can't think what to do and there is not much time...
It was a year ago that the phone call came, its insistent ring demanding attention.
We didn't sleep for the remainder of that night or for many nights afterward. I would hear the springs on Mum's bed squeaking as she thrashed about with feverish dreams. Then I'd hear her footsteps, the chinking of a cup and saucer as she made a hot drink in the kitchen. I couldn't sleep either, but I never got up when Mum did. She would worry that she had disturbed me.
Dad's funeral passed in a blur of kind words and friendly pats on the back. Mum I returned to a silent house. Dad often sang off-key when he was in his workroom, and we would tease him about it. Some days I thought I would scream if he didn't stop. Now he had. Forever. I longed to hear that woeful singing again.
After a while, things gradually changed. Eric began to visit. We'd known him for several years. He was my father's partner in an opal polishing business. But this was different. Eric spent long hours talking with Mum, and he took her to the movies and the beach - all the things Dad had been too busy to do.
Eric also made a point of spending time with me, telling jokes - usually bad ones. But I laughed because he tried so hard. Best of all, he made Mum laugh again. I suppose I might have resented him, but he was kind and Mum was happy.
I didn't mind that Mum was distracted by Eric. I had a problem of my own: not one I wanted to share. I had seen my father. 'Seen' might be the wrong word. But I can't think of a better one. I wasn't asleep but a picture formed, just for a few seconds - a body falls into a deep, dark tunnel. Immediately, instinctively, I knew it was Dad.
My mind is playing tricks, I told myself. No great surprise. I think about Dad a lot. And he died when he stepped into an uncovered opal mining shaft.
Even so, I didn't want to picture him like that. But I couldn't stop it happening, over and over.
'What's the matter, love?' Mum asked me just after I saw him for the first time.
She had enough on her mind without my problems, so I hesitated. But it was hard to handle this on my own. 'I saw something...'
There was a long silence before she answered. 'You know that's not possible.' Her voice sounded sad.
'Not something outside. Something inside.'
'What thing?'
'I saw Dad.'
Mum was quiet for so long, I thought she wasn't going to answer.
When she did, her voice was shaky. 'You miss him. So do I. It's natural.'
'Mum. What was Dad wearing when he died?' I heard her sharp intake of breath. She did not want to answer and I didn't blame her. But I needed to know. 'Mum?'
'Jeans and a shirt.'
'What shirt?'
'Is this really necessary?' Her voice rose.
'Please?'
'A red checked shirt. Now, no more questions.'
Her feet gave angry little taps as she retreated to crash dishes into the dishwasher. I didn't ask her anything else. It wasn't necessary. I knew what my father had been wearing.
The next afternoon, as I sat in the sunshine, drowsy with warmth and the buzz of bees, I had another sighting. This time it wasn't just a slow motion replay of the fall. There is a grunt as he overbalances and plummets downward. He screams, 'No!'
Something was wrong with the picture I saw. Before I could figure out what it was, footsteps sounded on the paving bricks. It was Eric. He made a slight dragging sound with one foot, as though it was turned in a little.
'Howdy,' he said.
I answered reluctantly, not really wanting to talk. The image of my father was still fresh in my mind.
'Everything okay?' His voice was deep and pleasant.
'Yeah.'
'Want to go to Pizza Hut for tea tonight?'
'Pan friend, double cheese?'
'Sure. Why not?' Eric took a deep breath. 'Mum tells me you're having disturbing dreams about your dad.'
They were not dreams. They were totally different. But I didn't argue. It was too hard to explain.
'Grief shows itself in strange ways,' he said. 'And I know you and your dad were close.'
I nodded.
'After my grandfather died, I saw him sitting in a chair in my lounge-room,' said Eric. 'I knew it wasn't him. Not really. It was my imagination, creating a picture of him.'
'What happened?'
'I spoke to him and he vanished. I never saw him again,' said Eric. 'Your dreams about your dad... do you want to tell me what you see?'
'No, not really. It's nothing.' I really didn't want to discuss this with Eric, or anyone else right now. I'd sound crazy. Maybe I was crazy.
'Are you sure? I'm a good listener.'
I shook my head. 'Well,' he patted my arm. 'You know you can talk to me anytime.' I couldn't see his face. But the way he patted me and the tone of his voice made me think of someone being nice to their pet dog.
'Can I ask you something, Eric?'
'Fire away.'
'Can I see you?'
'What... what do you mean?'
There was uncertainty in his voice and I hurried to explain. 'Would you mind if I touch your face? I know your voice and the sound of your footsteps, but I don't know what your face is like.'
I heard the scrape of his trousers as he knelt in front of my chair.
'Here I am,' he said.
His voice told me the height of his face. Before I learnt to think about things like that, I poked a friend of Mum's right in the eye. But that was a long time ago, just after my illness.
Eric had short, straight hair and it felt clean. I caught a whiff of shampoo. His forehead protruded slightly and his thick eyebrows ledged over high cheekbones. He was clean-shaven, except for the prickly roughness of a man who had shaved some hours earlier. 'What colour are your eyes?' I asked.
'Sort of mixed up.'
'Can't you make up your mind?'
'I don’t usually have to explain them,' he said. 'Uh... they're mostly green with brown and yellow flecks. I guess you'd call them hazel.'
Gently, I ran my fingertips across his cheek and over the prominent bridge of his nose.
'Ah, now you know,' he mumbled from under my hand.
'What?'
'I have a big nose.'
I withdrew my hand, satisfied that I could picture Eric as a real person, not just a disembodied voice.
'Now I know all about you,' I teased.
His voice, when he spoke, sounded strange. 'Not everything, I hope. A man is entitled to some secrets.'
I’ve embarrassed him, I thought. People sometimes reacted in odd ways when I asked to touch them.
After he went back inside the house, my thoughts returned to Dad. What was it that didn't fit? Something about the way he fell - head first. If he was walking and stepped into the hole, wouldn’t he fall feet first?
Restless and worried, I stood and touched the brick house wall for guidance. I felt my way along the side of the house, towards the back door. Why did Dad shout, 'No', as if he was calling out to someone? The police said he was alone when it happened. I had more questions than answers.
That night at Pizza Hut, I was in for another surprise.
'Eric and I are getting married,' said Mum, over the garlic bread. Just like that. I froze with a hot slice of pungent bread halfway into my mouth. She could have told me gradually, let me guess what was in the wind instead of hitting me with the news like that. It was too soon. Friendship was one thing: marriage was another.
'Haven't you got anything to say?'
I shook my head. What good would it do? They had made up their minds without me. My opinion didn't count.
'Would you like to order more drinks?' A voice to the right asked in a bored tone.
'Er... no thanks,' said Eric. 'Maybe later.' The noise level in the room seemed to rise with my anxiety.
Eric was all right as a visitor, but would it be like living in the same house? Suddenly I missed Dad more than anything. I wanted him back.
Silently, I finished my garlic bread. But it was tasteless.
Mum and Eric decided there was no point in waiting.
When Mum and Dad were married, they whipped into a registry office. Mum always regretted that. This time, she wanted the full disaster. In a church, with a reception to follow.
In the week before the wedding, the phone rang incessantly. Mum flew around like a mad bird caught in a building. She cried over her tea and yelled at the caterer.
Me? I was swamped with my own thoughts.
The night before the wedding, I saw Dad again. He's not alone. There's another person. A man. The man shoves Dad in the back. Dad shouts as he pitches headfirst down the dark tunnel.
Hot sweat broke out all over me. I had seen someone pushing Dad. Deliberately and maliciously. Were these things I was seeing real? Or, as Eric had suggested, was I missing Dad so much that my brain created weird fantasies about him?
But that didn't explain how I 'saw' what Dad was wearing when he fell. I couldn't know that. Yet I did. What Mum told me confirmed it. It was possible, though, that I'd heard someone tell Mum but I didn't remember. Or was Dad trying to tell me something?
His assailant wore a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing strong, hairy arms. I had seen a glimpse of greying beard and blue eyes. I had no idea who he was.
Whispers grow around me as I stand in the church. She must be at the door. The organist misses a few notes now and then as the Bridal March echoes around the building.
I hear the sweep of a long dress over carpet. Mum told me her dress was pink, 'Like the shell of an oyster.'
A hand presses my arm. 'Ooh, she looks gorgeous,' whispers the girl beside me. I forget her name. She's Eric's niece.
'Uncle Eric's gorgeous too.' This girl thinks everything in the whole world is gorgeous.
'Uncle Eric looks heaps younger since he shaved off his beard. It was mostly grey.'
Goosebumps run up and down my arms. Time slows, stops. The crowd, the church, the voice of the minister - all fade into a huge blanket of fear. A bearded man pushed my father into the dark mine shaft. But Eric has hazel eyes. The man in my vision had blue.
'Psst.' I tap the niece on the arm.
'Yeah?' she whispers back.
'What colour are Eric's eyes?'
'What?'
I feel like squeezing her skinny arm to make her answer quickly. 'What colour are Eric's eyes?'
'Green, with brown and yellow spots in them.'
Relief makes me weak at the knees. I feel like fainting. My hands tremble.
'Course it depends what he's wearing,' the niece adds, 'If he's wearing blue, then his eyes look blue... are you all right? You look awfully pale.'
Was it Eric? I don't know. How can I? I've never seen him. I never will. Eric worked with Dad. He found the opals that Dad polished and sold. Eric knows the mines like the back of his hands. And now Eric is marrying Mum.
I feel sick.
The minister is leading up to the part where he asks if anyone knows a reason why this couple should not be married. I've heard all of this plenty of times at my cousins' weddings.
If I'm going to speak out, I'll have to do it soon. A few more seconds, that's all. There is not much time...
Twisted
Here are the first two chapters of Spy/Undercover Girl #5: Twisted
CHAPTER 1
Jesse Sharpe swerved to a stop on her skis. Snow shot over her boots. Trying to ignore the rapid beating of her heart, she looked back over her shoulder. Then, carefully, she scanned the white mountain slope in front of her. Left to right. Then back again.
There was no sign of the mysterious man she was to meet. He was late.
Jesse felt a shiver, and it wasn't from the cold.
Her assigned partner, Liam Heggarty, should be meeting this man. But Liam was nursing a twisted left ankle. Yesterday, a skier who had learnt to take off, but not stop, used him to break her downhill run. Liam wasn't badly hurt, but he couldn't easily ski.
Jesse stared at the towering peaks around her. This place was secluded and quiet. She imagined herself skiing across the slope and away, to freedom. She'd have a head-start if she fled now. But the C2 organisation would be ruthless in searching for her. If they found her, they would drag her back to headquarters, or make sure that she disappeared for good. They wouldn't want their enemies getting hold of one of their living experiments and finding out the reason for her enhanced abilities.
Erasing thoughts of freedom, Jesse sighed. She would never run away without Jai and Rohan, her adopted brothers. And now there was Tamarind to think about. Besides, Jesse was tied to C2 in a way that few people could imagine.
She rested her ski poles against her legs, propped her sunglasses on top of her head and took a tiny pair of binoculars from her pocket. Then she put the binoculars to her eyes and focused the lenses.
Further down the slope, a dark figure on skis waited, motionless.
There he is.
Returning the binoculars to her pocket, Jesse pulled down her sunglasses. Gripping the ski poles, she bent her knees and took off down the slope.
Seconds later, above the sound of the cold wind whipping her face and her skis sliding on the snow, she heard a disturbing sound that sent warning prickles across the back of her neck.
CHAPTER 2
The man down the snowy slope didn't move.
He can't hear it yet, thought Jesse, and wasn't surprised. Her hearing was extra-sensitive.
A black helicopter flew over the top of the mountain and the sound became louder.
It could have been a pilot flying skiers to untouched slopes, but she didn't think so. Her instincts screamed at her to hide. But there were no trees on the slope, no shelter. She hoped the sun's bright reflection off the snow would make it harder for the pilot to see.
Rotor blades whirring, the helicopter flew closer.
The windows were tinted so Jesse couldn't see who was inside. Aware that a moving target was harder to hit, she skied left, right, then left again.
Steadily, the helicopter circled, like a mosquito about to sting. Small missiles were attached to its sides. Jesse's back muscles stiffened as she anticipated the helicopter shooting at her. It circled again and flew over her head, towards the top of the mountain.
Jesse struggled to keep her balance. It was hard to ski downhill, watch where she was going and keep an eye on the helicopter.
There was an explosion, a flash of red.
The people in the helicopter had not fired at Jesse or the mysterious man. They had aimed for the top of the slope. Jesse heard an enormous growl, as though a giant dog was behind her. There was a crack, and another.
Suddenly, she felt sick. She knew what was happening, even before she looked back one last time. A wall of snow was plummeting down the slope towards her. The helicopter's missile had started an avalanche...
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