Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (2 page)

Bobby
stands on the spot while the cackles disappear at his back like a
fading apparition.

His
knees wobble as the flat figure from before appears before him now.
The shadow is closer, but no less surreal.

“
You
will all die here,” the figure repeats in a raspy tone.
“
You
stay away, otherwise you'll find out what a bitch fate really is.”

Blood
leaks from the corner of Bobby's cracked lips and down his chin.

The
incandescent gifts lies at Bobby's feet, but he cannot recall
dropping them. The entire length of his teenage body has gone numb.
When he tries to move, it slopes forward onto the beach and his head
slips free of his neck. A scream tries to slip free, but only silence
releases into the air. Once his cheek hits the ground, his eyes glaze
over.

Any
signs of the stomping hooves fall into silence. Even the waves
dissolve into foam particles before disappearing from his vision. The
blackness closing in around the edges turns everything dull as though
the usual English grey clouds fill every inch of the sky. Only, Bobby
can see no clouds where his eyes peer now. As the world fades away,
the last thing he sees is the glowing gift.

For
every end, the embers of a new beginning are set burning bright. And
within this beginning, a cluster of heroes unlike any before will
forge.

BOOK
ONE

REAL
HEROES

DON'T
WEAR CAPES

CHAPTER ONE

The
test results are in.

The
entire year gather in the dance hall where all seasonal productions
and exams take place, but both those things are in their past now as
they get ready to leave this all behind. They won't be engaging any
pretend acting again that's for sure.

The
pupils sit on the familiar blue plastic so Mr Spencer can deliver his
usual speech. He rehearses it well, but he gives an amended version
to each leaving year, so it's easy to see why. And, despite the man's
stature, nobody is paying attention. Most are anxious of their test
results, or annoyed at having to come back for an hour, but this
means they are no longer students here.

No,
we are free.

Bobby
recalls the leavers last year. Ermie 'Jitter Bug' Spears invaded his
personal space with his rushed speech and poor hygiene. He said his
piece before releasing a crazy laugh—as close to Eric Cartman's
chortle as a skinny dude can get. To this day, Bobby can still recall
those words with clarity as he lent his stale breath into his face.
“Never believe you're free. You just wind up swapping one
prison for another!”

He
wonders whether everyone in the hall feels free, or pressured into
getting a job and deciding what they want to achieve with their
lives. More than half don't have a clue about identity, or trade.
They appear indifferent toward the school, so perhaps the former is
true. It will be interesting to run into a class acquaintance a year
from now.

They'll
be wishing for a magical portal to lead them back to this moment
where their future still lies ahead.

Mr
Spencer is having a grand time on stage as he stares into the rows of
emotions slumped on the plastic chairs with a smirk.

“
He
a
lways
liked the sound of his own voice,” Danny whispers in his ear.

From
his slick blonde hair and pressed shirt to his shiny shoes, the guy
is pristine. He keeps his shoes so polished people joke that dog shit
parts on the sidewalk as he passes.

Being
the youngest teacher to make head of Our Lady Of Sorrows Secondary at
thirty, he thinks himself superior. He soon dropped everything which
landed him the job like being able to relate to students and the
cheeky attitude that came along with that. In its place, arrogance
and a huge superiority complex settled in.

That
doesn't stop the women teachers from swooning over him. Male
teachers, too, if Bobby is interpreting the glances correctly.
Perhaps shit parts in his mere presence like the hundreds of ladies
thighs he has no doubt spread, But the hard fact is, while he remains
out of earshot of other teachers, he disciplines children by less
conventional means—nothing his father brags about receiving as
a boy either. But while mouths run outside the gates, no one comes
forward to speak out against him, especially since the winter of '09.

It
was 15th November when Mickey Baker complained about Spencer's
“mistreatment” to police. A week later, on the 22nd, the
boy died in a car crash. Police found no signs of tampered brakes and
no evidence to suggest it was anything but an accident. His mother
died in the crash and his sister was on drips for months, but died
too.

No
one has said a word since. There are links to Spencer's involvement
in underground gangs and rumours of a cult, which Bobby doesn't know
what to make of. Yet, he finds himself interested by one cult rumour
of men in capes stitched with dead skin.

The
man did him no harm, so he assumes he is only a dickhead abusing his
power—anyone willing to spend more money than sense on over
indulgences to big themselves up is.

Mr
Spencer looms over them and discusses where they go from here. He
talks about how the time they shared flew by and all they achieved.

Like
the guy didn't go around doing as he pleased the whole time.

As
he speaks of wisdom, he borrows from the greats like Arthur C.
Clarke. “The only way of finding the limits of possible is by
going beyond them into the impossible.”

That
quote makes Danny turn to him and lend a quote himself. “Stealing
someone else's word frequently spares the embarrassment of eating
your own. Peter Anderson.”

All
their failings and inevitable downfall in each of their lives is
nobody's fault but their own—that is what he is driving at this
morning. And he sure makes it knowledge he will not share any blame
for their failure in the future.

•

Bobby
walks into the navy painted gates for the final time with Danny at
his side. It isn't as emotional as the girls in the secondary school
down the road suggested.

No
one comes out to make a fuss and he can't help feeling a little
disappointed. Danny feels the same, he can tell by his pouting lips.
After all the years they gave to this place, there should be confetti
bawling from the sky, streamers, balloons, or at least a light
applause. But they receive nothing.

He
isn't even responsive as they walk into the building. With the lack
of prospects he will soon have to address, he doesn't want to
celebrate anyway. But the thought of never having to face his nemesis
and his vile pals again is enough for him to crack a lob-sided grin.

Danny
Summers, the only friend he has ever made, text him last night. It
was a video of
28 Days Later
's theme tune and the words, 'The
End Is Extremely Fucking Nigh'. That sums up his emotions well
enough, but Danny can afford to make jokes with the grades he will
get.

They
wait in the hall with the other boys they grew up with for five
years, or since nursery—boys he has not connected with in all
that time. They sit drumming fingers on knees, waiting for the news
that will change their lives. Many have headphones stuck in their
ears, showing only indifference. Others slump in the plastic, talking
with their respective mates.

Jack
Watson (the Sparrow's best striker) inform everyone what hysterics
will ensue tonight. His parents consent to using his family home to
spend the night laughing and having fun as long as no alcohol, or
drugs enter the premises and the bedrooms don't become a brothel.
Despite the rules, Jack insists the hard, long months of studying and
preparation will not go by “without a bang.”

Danny
suggests they go to make conversation. Yet, Bobby has other reasons
than guys like Josh and Toad going to make him decline the offer.

•

Holding
his results in the unopened envelope, he rocks back and forth on the
swing. He is too old for swings, but it's the only seating option in
the park with the benches all broken and covered in graffiti and
pigeon crap.

Bobby
reads the letters in his name backwards as he thumbs the envelope. He
runs a nail underneath the flap, then presses the sticky side back
down again. With his elbows on his knees, he slaps it again with his
palm before hanging it toward the floor. A deep sigh escapes into the
air as he glances into the trees.

He
wishes it was the fear of the answers keeping him from opening the
test results. He couldn't put in much studying time even if he
understood what the teachers were talking about, but it all means
nothing because it honestly makes no difference.

Halting
the swing, the dirt scuffs his school shoes for the final time as he
spots the pale arms raise. Behind the broken fence in the garden
across from where he sits, she pulls the washing from the line. The
clapping of plastic pegs is out of earshot, but he still hears it
within his memory. Inside his skull, the sound is a deafening snap he
recalls from when he would tug on his mother's floral dress as a
toddler. He would cover the material with mire after digging for
worms and most likely eating a few too, but she never complained.

The
plastic releases as he clambers half-heartily to his feet. The metal
chains still rattle as he passes hordes of ground elder, dock leaves
and stinging nettles.

Not
following the route carved by the dog walkers over the years, he cuts
across the musky grass. He ducks his head through a crowd of flies,
batting them away as he steps through the parting between the
creeping thistle and dandelions.

Bees
buzz and the sweet summer scent greets his noise--a contrast to his
feelings right now. The seeds from two dandelions break and scatter
as he brushes against them with his leg, but when he glances down, he
makes no wish. After all the years of trying that one, he knows the
idea may be magical in a childish way, but if it worked then everyone
would be puffing on
that shit
. He would also have a house in
the Lake District—one of those huge houses overlooking Lake
Windermere.

After
he ducks under a wooden fence, he slides down the muddy mound onto
the gravel leading to the garages at the back of the houses. From
here, he can see his mother has closed the back door and disappeared
inside.

Miss
Summers rises from the open gate next door and brings a black bag to
the wheelie bin. After, she pulls it back through the gate with the
wheels grinding along the uneven surface. When she spots him, she
comes back out with a smile across her moist lips.

“
How
were your results, love? I bet they were as exemplary as my Danny's
scores.” She tips him a wink which lights her blue eyes when
they widen again. The thick clumps of mascara frame them in
perfection, above the cutest beauty-spot.

Like
when the sun shines on calm waves.

She
glances at the spilled wrappers tangled within the weeds from
dragging the bin. When she sighs, a slight sheen forms at her
forehead.

“
Yes,
Miss Summers. I got two A's, two B's, two C's and an F, but that
doesn't matter.” He tries not to allow the lie to come shining
through. “And two passes in my business GNVQ. Not as good as
Danny's, but good enough, I guess.”

Had
he prepared day and night before the exams, his results would still
not rival his mate's. He knows that, so does she. Danny might know
it, too, but it isn't in him to brag. Just like it is not in her to
do so.

“
That's
fantastic. I bet your mum will be dead proud.”

Your
mum will be dead. Dead proud.

Bobby
glances around and scratches at his head.