Geekhood (11 page)

Thankfully, everything goes to plan and I breathe a sigh of relief. The final part, which I’ll do first thing in the morning, is the fine detail: eyes, lips, jewellery and
other embellishments that will bring the model to life.

Mum sticks her head round the door, just as I’m putting my brush down. Her eyes widen as she scans the rugged landscape of my newly tidied Lair.

“I must be in the wrong house,” she says in mock surprise. “I thought this was my son’s room…”

“Ha, ha.”

Mum looks around the room again.

“I’ll give it a hoover while you’re at school, if you like.”

Something darkens behind my eyes and a protest hits the back of my throat.

IM:
Hang on; don’t forget that she was a girl too, once. Girls notice that sort of thing.

The cloud passes and the protest is swallowed.

“OK.” It’s a multipurpose answer that neither confirms nor denies my feelings on the matter; I can’t appear too eager.

“Needs a dust too,” she mutters to herself, before catching the sardonic glower in my eyes. “Leave it to me; I won’t move anything important.”

Unfortunately for my EM, my mother’s enthusiastic trilling is infectious and I can’t help grinning ruefully and shaking my head. She takes the cue, with a huge smile which tells me that the room will have been cleaned within an inch of its life by the time I get home.
Whether I like it or not.

IM:
Which you do, really. But don’t let her know that. Give her too much approval and she’ll be in here every day!

“Love you!” she half sings. “Night night!” And the door is closed.

I give Nox Noctis and the Gargoyle a quick
once-over
, before setting my alarm clock an hour earlier so that I can finish the job and give myself time for any touch-ups. Thursday’s going to be a long day, but the effort should be worth it. Racking my brain for shops that sell incense, I climb into bed and wait to be claimed by dreams of Sarah the Beautiful Goth.

I’ve never really liked Thursdays. They’re just a bit lame. And thanks to a decent night’s sleep with no weird dreams, I’m in Fast Forward mode. I really want to get this Thursday over with, so the countdown to the Game can begin properly. It’s a bit like the day before Christmas Eve – lame.

Even lamer is the fact that I get up at Stupid o’Clock to do the embellishments on Nox Noctis. At six-thirty in the morning, I can barely see, let alone wield a paintbrush, but I give it my best shot. Last night’s lowlight wash and hairdryer-aided blobbing has turned
out pretty well. All that remains is to pick out the details, which will be the bits that’ll be noticed.

IM:
It’s all in the details.

Using my finest brush, I pick out the witch’s irises in a blue that I mix up to be as close to Sarah’s as possible. Instead of the traditional scarlet-red lipstick that most witches seem to sport in movies and artwork, I go for a deeper hue of the flesh-tone; the only people who look good in bright red lipstick work in circuses. As far as I’m concerned, this is an hour of my life well spent, and it’s one less thing to worry about later.

Before I head downstairs, I have a flash of inspiration and post my address up on Sarah’s Facebook Timeline, complete with a Google Maps link. And then I add, “Your Quest begins at 7pm tomorrow,” just to try and help get her in the mood. A quick check on my own Timeline shows up a message from Dad, which he’d left last night.

I’m suspecting he may eventually resort to hieroglyphics.

After a minute’s hovering over the keypad, I decide not to reply. Maybe if I don’t, he’ll give up.

IM:
Although he did say it was important…

Yeah, well, “important” can wait till I get my new phone. The Game’s
important
. Sarah’s
important
. Making everything Just Right’s
important
. I get another major lightbulb moment and search for shops in town that might sell incense.

IM:
Bingo! There’s one round the corner from the Hovel!

I close the computer down and then I try and Fast Forward the rest of the day.

Which works fine until first break. It’s a warm, early summer’s day and me, Matt and Beggsy are hanging out in the playground. Beggsy gives an eye-witness report of the T-shirt he glimpsed Kirsty Ford wearing in PE this morning. It’s tight, apparently. Once we’ve all calmed down, the conversation is just turning to the Game, when Ravi appears, looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Which he might as well have been.

“Archie!” He arrives, stumbling and breathless, with fear practically spraying out of every pore.

“Rav – what is it? You OK?”

“It’s Humphries! He’s looking for you!”

IM:
Oh my God! We’re all going to die!

“Why? What does he want?”

Ravi’s shaking. “He wanted to know where you live, Archie.”

IM:
Oh, no.

Beggsy joins in with a low, drawn-out “Du-ude.” Conveys *Oh my God! We’re all going to die!*. To add to the moment, his voice fluctuates, making him sound like a terrified Smurf.

“And did you tell him?”

“No, I didn’t.” Ravi’s smile is fragile, like he’s been through the torments of Hell, but kept his mouth shut. “I couldn’t.”

IM:
Good soldier.

“Thanks, man. You’re braver than I would’ve been.”

“No.” Ravi shrugs. “I
couldn’t;
I don’t know your new address.”

IM:
Ah. That explains it, then.

“OK.” I nod distractedly. “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll text you guys my address tonight; maybe it’s better if you don’t know it right now. That way, Humphries can’t get it out of you.” Others might take this as an insult; Geeks know the truth, so no one argues with this idea, but I’m sure we’re all damning our lack of muscles at this point. “Let’s try and stick together at lunch and afternoon break; we’re more vulnerable if we’re alone.”

And that’s how the rest of the day goes. We spend lunchtime in the library and afternoon break finding appropriate corners to skulk in. I don’t see Sarah – and part of me’s grateful. I wouldn’t want her exposed to this level of cowardice.

By the time I get home, I’m tired and depressed. Tony’s out, wooing some client over a pint and a frame, and Mum’s obsessively trying to get more unpacking done. Eventually, I hit the hay, glad to have Thursday done with. And, despite my excitement that the countdown to the Game begins tomorrow morning, I feel uneasy – there’s still plenty of time for everything to go wrong.

IM:
Cheer up! At least you can sleep without fear of being bullied!

How wrong can you be?

I’m in bed as the Dream begins. I can feel a surge of darkness from the corner of the room and two burning coal red eyes suddenly blink into life. Unable to move or call out, I anticipate an attack. But it doesn’t come; the eyes just smoulder at me from the shadows.

Suddenly, two streams of …
something
… flow out from where my assailant lurks. It’s like a cross between Spider-Man’s webbing and sticky tape. These gluey ropes seem to have a life of their own and they wrap themselves round me, over and over, binding me tight, arms to my side, like a crude version of mummification. The strands operate like tentacles and lift me from my bed to stand me upright in the centre of the room.

From the shadows, I can hear something like a voice. Having seen the hulking form of my dream-demon in
the past, I would’ve expected a deep, resonant growl, but what I get is a sound like a distant shout, as though I’m hearing the fading moments of an echo.

I stand, bound and trembling, listening to these muted cries, for what seems like an eternity. I wish for a knife or something sharp to cut my bonds, but nothing comes; I’m helpless, entirely at the mercy of the thing in the corner.

The distant voice stops, fading like smoke into the darkness. The following silence is worse than the weird sounds.

The creature finally steps from its hiding place and, just before it knocks me to the ground and back into the waking world, I recognize it. Its form has solidified into a craggy, angular mass of muscles and hatred, and it spreads its wings with a gristly creak as it sends me to the floor with a distant bellow.

It’s my Gargoyle.

TEN

The Glorious Day arrives and I’m knackered. Not even Mum’s excited chirruping can raise my spirits; her extra fiddling with my collar and smoothing back of my hair is just annoying. Tony waves me off with a parting, “Go get her, Tiger,” which sends my IM into apoplexy and it’s only thanks to my well-honed EM that I’m able to stop myself shouting “TOSSER!” at the top of my voice. Although I do mutter the word to myself on the walk to school, over and over, like some sort of mantra.

It’s not that the Dream scares me; I’ve had enough now to be able to shake them off pretty quickly. But there’s something unsettling about your hobby turning on you in the middle of the night. At least Nox Noctis came out well. I give her a final appraisal before I set off for school. She’s sexy, but not too sexy.

IM:
Is there such a thing?

But I think what really makes her are the skin tones – the blobbing and the colour-wash have united almost perfectly. This model would be worth entering into the next Games Day Painting Competition, but I think I’m probably going to end up giving it to Sarah. Men usually give flowers; Geeks give miniature witches.

At school, the gang are excited, but trying not to show it – it’s the Geek way. Partly it’s because you don’t want other people to hear you hopping up and down and saying how you’re going to smite the Foes of Darkness with your Level 4Dwarf, and partly because, secretly, we’re all trying to elevate the Game from what it actually is: a game. Not that we’ve got any illusions that it is anything else, but we’re not settling down for an evening of Ludo. So, rather than slapping each other on the back and shouting about Lazarus Potions, we give each other sly looks and coded comments, preserving what little dignity we actually have. And all the time, we’re on the look-out for Humphries, who remains an unseen threat throughout the morning.

Lunchtime arrives and I head for the school gates. Beggsy intercepts me before I get there.

“Dude! Where you going?”

“Into town, mate. Just to get some stuff for tonight.”

“Yeah?” Beggsy chucks me a confused look; what could I possibly need for tonight? We’ve got the Game, we’ve got the figures … we’ve even got the girl! Who could ask for anything more?

“Yeah. Just some stuff.”

“’K, dude. Catch you later.” He high-fives me and heads for the dinner hall.

This is the first time I’ve ever been off-premises without permission and I’m already feeling like
a criminal. The feeling is enhanced by the others going in the same direction; they’re of a type. This is all going to sound a bit snobby, but people judge me for being a Geek, so I think I’m allowed to pass a few sentences of my own. The people mooching away from the gates seem to be those who don’t really want to be at school in the first place – the skirts are tighter, hoods cowl sloping brows and walks become struts. I’m now a lone gazelle on the Serengeti of Disaffected Youth. My EM ramps it up a notch and I opt for the head-down, hands-in-pockets approach; it’s amazing how interesting your own feet can become when you’re trying to go unnoticed.

Town feels safer; there are shoppers out and about and office workers grazing on sandwiches – more cover for a solitary Geek to exploit. While the strutting, cackling predators march through the crowds, signalling their approach with hoots and shrieks, I hug the walls, seeking the camouflage offered by gossiping old ladies and mothers with children.

IM:
You’re a regular Conan the Barbarian.

As I pass the Hovel, I give the window a quick look, taking temporary comfort from the colours and shapes on display. But I’m not headed there today. There’s an alley, not far from the Hovel, and that’s where Google has told me I need to go. If I’m to find incense anywhere this lunchtime, it’ll be there.

I round the corner into the alley, unseen by the tottering troupes of two-legged baboons from my school. It’s a shabby little shop, bearing the name “Manisha” in the sort of writing you see on Indian restaurants. Knowing my luck, it means something like “Shop For Unrequited Love”.

IM:
There’s that word again…

An old-fashioned bell tinkles above the door as I go in and I know I’m in the right place. Apart from the rows of shelves selling crystals, oddly shaped candles and statues of Buddha, the smell of incense is overpowering. Although it’s a bit flowery, it creates the feeling I was looking for – already I could be somewhere otherworldly; time seems suspended and I feel my stresses gradually diminishing. The incense is located near the back of the shop, so I wander through, briefly taking in the books about witchcraft and listening to the gentle jingles of the wind chimes that hang from the ceiling.

The incense comes in either sticks or cones and in a number of different fragrances.

IM:
Which one?

Luckily, there’s a chart on the wall giving details of the various properties of each fragrance. I opt for Patchouli cones, which, according to the chart, are “a must for all special occasions”. Unfortunately, even the white paper bag the shopkeeper wraps them in doesn’t
completely disguise their perfume; I’ve got to get these into my school bag ASAP, or I’m going to smell like a temple for the rest of the day.

Fate, however, has other ideas. As I round the corner back into the town centre, I’m confronted with the sight of Jason Humphries and his Pack of Grunts propping up a shop. They don’t get in my way or anything; they’re too busy smoking and grunting with something that might be a girl under all that make-up. Humphries, however, clocks me straight away and while he doesn’t move or speak, he fixes me with his cold, dead eyes, an
alligator-smile
playing on his lips.

IM:
Oh, God.

My legs are already filling with adrenalin, readying me to run. But he doesn’t come for me. Instead, the
six-pack
in his forehead flexes just because it can. I don’t know whether to look away, which might signify disrespect, or to meet his gaze, which would signal some sort of challenge. Instead, I try to do a bit of both, blinking and nodding frantically and half whispering an “all right?” in his general direction.

IM:
That’s it – you show ’em!

Just as I’m almost out of his eyeline, he responds with a slow, measured nod and mouths a single word.

“Tonight.”

IM:
Might as well start digging your grave now.

But, as far as I know, he still doesn’t know where I live.

IM:
Keep praying.

I do. All through Maths and all through Physics.

The post-school walk home ought to be an excited babble of what’s going to happen tonight. Ordinarily, my mates would be trying to get clues out of me as to what’s in store in the Tomb of the Sleepless, and I’d be responding with smug teasers and chucking in the occasional red herring. And in the light of recent events, we ought to be discussing The Presence Of A Girl For The First Time. But today my mates are trying to reassure me that Jason Humphries’s threat is an empty one.

“Well, so what if he does turn up?” Ravi is offering some sort of masterclass in bravado. “You just call the police.”

“He
won’t
turn up.” Matt’s been saying this in response to pretty much everything that’s been said for the last ten minutes. “He doesn’t know where you live.”

“But s’posing he turns up and wrecks the place? What if he kicks the door in?” I’ve got to the putting-
both-my
-hands-on-the-top-of-my-head stage, convinced that Humphries will somehow smell his way to my new house.

“He won’t turn up.”

“He’s not that stupid, Arch,” Ravi says, ignoring Matt. “That would be breaking and entering. It’s illegal. He might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid.”

“He won’t turn up.”

“But you didn’t see the look on his face; he meant it!” I gabble.

“He won’t turn up.”

Beggsy suddenly marches ahead and turns to face us, stopping us in our tracks.

“Dudes,” he says, in an imploring tone. “You’re all forgetting something.” There’s a dramatic pause and I can feel the fires of hope kindling. What can we have possibly forgotten?

“There’s
four
of us…” Beggsy holds up four fingers, just in case we’ve forgotten how to count. “…and only one of him.” He holds up one finger on the other hand, saving us all from these mathematical gymnastics. “See what I’m saying?”

There’s another pause as we stare at Beggsy. Then, as a unit, and right on cue, we all burst into laughter. We’re Geeks; we know what we’re capable of and what we’re not.

“I’m just saying!” Beggsy protests, his voice rising an octave.

“Hey!” Ravi chimes. “Is there a window over your front door?”

“Yeah. So?”

“We could fill up some buckets of water and pour them on his head!”

More laughter and everyone joins in, coming up with more and more elaborate plans as to how we can get rid of Jason Humphries, if he turns up. Which, according to Matt, he won’t.

After a lot of mutual bolstering, my friends peel off to their respective homes and I get back to mine. I check the clock.

IM:
Three hours till blast off.

And then it hits me: in three hours, a girl will be coming round to my house.

IM:
And she’s gorgeous.

And she’s gorgeous!

IM:
And you like her.

And I like her!

IM:
Holy shit.

Without bothering to announce my arrival, I charge up the stairs to my Lair. It looks fantastic; Mum’s done a great job and, true to her word, hasn’t moved anything important. The duvet has been changed, the carpet’s clean and the dust is just a distant memory. Anything resembling a cardboard box has mysteriously vanished, and my bits and bobs have magically found themselves new homes. It looks perfect.

Mum knocks at the door and pops her head round.

“Everything all right?”

“Thanks, Mum. It’s great. I’m just going to jump in the shower.”

“Go on, then, and I’ll fix you some tea.”

Never have I paid so much attention to my personal hygiene: hair is washed, armpits are scrubbed and those important little places are given Maximum Soapage. With my new jeans and shirt on and a dash of aftershave watering my solitary chest hair, I walk into the kitchen. Mum puts a plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of me.

“You look nice.” Perfect delivery: it’s understated, so as not to cause embarrassment or self-consciousness, but the twinkle in her eye tells me that I’m looking pretty sharp. It’s all I need to know.

Unfortunately, there’s another opinion to be offered, and it arrives through the front door with a jangle of keys and a trail of smoke. No prizes for guessing.

“Hey, hey, hey, Casanova! Lock up your daughters, Arch is on the prowl!”

IM:
It was a mercy killing, Your Honour…

“I picked up those paints you wanted. Are these the right ones?”

IM:
Eh…?

Tony’s lingering at the end of the hall like an inflated shadow. He furtively beckons to me, obviously trying not
to catch Mum’s attention.

IM:
*Sighs* Might as well play along and see what the Man of Mystery is up to…

“Let’s have a look,” I manage, weakly embracing the charade. As I reach the end of the hall, Tony presses himself up against a wall, keeping his eyes on the kitchen. At this point, I feel like I’m in one of those old spy movies where no one can act. My EM suppresses the urge to break into a Russian accent.

“What paint?”

Tony shoves a carrier bag under my nose.

“Thought you might need something special tonight.”

There’s a bottle of Cava inside.

This throws my IM into unprecedented conflict with itself. On the one hand, it’s an ostentatious gesture, one that fails to take into account a) my age and b) that a few cans of lager would be more appropriate. I ought to turn it down. On the other hand, it’s going to look pretty cool to Sarah when I casually whip out a bottle of something fizzy. The internal argument lasts a matter of seconds before the hopeless romantic within makes the final call.