Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London (47 page)

He opened his eyes. Clara was standing nearby … they were still alive. It was very dark now, but he could just make out the bodies of all the krun, slumped on the floor, twitching very occasionally.

“We're almost cut off,” said Clara.

“What do you mean?” Johnny knew the words had come from his mouth, but it was as though someone else had spoken them. This couldn't be real. His mum and dad couldn't be dead. Not now.

“The krun can't function without the link to their queen. It's like what happened on Triton when they all stopped working.” Clara's voice sounded strangely flat.

“Good,” said Johnny. He'd never hated anything more than he hated the krun now.

“No it's not good. It's like at the football match—the Klein fold—when I trapped them in a pocket of hyperspace with no way out.” Johnny heard the words but they didn't sink in. Clara carried on. “The power source keeping the gateway open from the inside isn't there any more. It's going to close. If we're going to get out we have to go now.” Though she said it, Clara didn't move.

Johnny didn't want to go anywhere either. It was as though they were both paralyzed. But he also didn't want to look at the two bodies on the bed next to him. Instead he focused on the outlines of the krun, who were hardly moving at all now. He walked across to where Stevens lay and kicked his body off the bloodstained Bentley. He held the sheepdog in his hands and Bentley opened his eyes, before rolling his huge tongue across
Johnny's face. Johnny smiled weakly at the dog, lifting the gray and white hair out of Bentley's eyes.

“Look out,” screamed Clara. Stevens had forced himself up from the pool of blood he was lying in and, though shaking, tried to point his gun at Johnny. The alien fired wildly and Johnny ducked just in time as one of the energy bolts grazed his and Bentley's heads. Clara jumped on top of Stevens and grabbed his hair, forcing him to drop the weapon before passing out on the floor.

“He's still breathing,” she said. “Something's keeping the link open—but only just or they'd all be awake. It's like a door that can't shut properly.”

“It's the tower,” said Johnny. “The one in the grounds—I think it's a transmitter. It's got to be.” He didn't know how, but he knew he was right. Finally he made himself look at the bodies of his two parents slumped on the hospital bed. If it weren't for the odd ways his arms and legs were pointing, his dad might have been asleep. And even now, with the life-support machines switched off, his mum looked just as she'd looked for almost all his life. He walked forward and put a hand onto each of them. “I don't want to leave them,” he said. “Not now—not when we're together for the first time.”

“He saved me,” said Clara, from across the bed. She placed her head against her father's back and put her arms around him. “I didn't think he even knew who I was, but he saved me.”

“That's what dads do. He said it was his job.”

“We can't let it be for nothing. We should get out while we can.” For the first time Clara seemed energized. She lifted herself off her father and walked around the bed to Johnny.

“What if they're not … dead,” said Johnny. “What if Dad's just been knocked out?” He took hold of both arms and started shaking his father, trying to revive him. If he could just get all of them back to the Spirit of London it could still
be OK. Clara put her arms around Johnny's waist, gently trying to pull him away, but he didn't care. He wasn't moving. Even if they were dead, he couldn't just leave them here on their own—leave their bodies in this dark, vile nothingness. Only it wasn't dark anymore. A soft white light was coming from behind. Johnny turned around to see a tall young woman, dressed all in silver, with shining silver eyes and long blond hair that seemed to glow all on its own. It was the Diaquant.

“You came back,” said Clara, and the Diaquant stepped forward, took Johnny's sister in her arms, and held her tightly.

“It's all right, Johnny, my love,” said the glowing figure. “He's with me now.” The Diaquant touched the lifeless hand of Michael Mackintosh. It was as though she was reaching inside him and, as she pulled, a shining white hand emerged from his body, not flesh and bone, but glowing with energy. Then came an arm, and then the rest of a shimmering version of the man Johnny remembered as his father, but as he'd looked years ago—dark-haired, fresh-faced and handsome.

The new Michael Macintosh glanced at his lifeless corpse on the bed, before he turned to meet the gaze of the Diaquant. “Mary,” he said, and he hugged the beautiful woman before him, and the whole room filled with light and warmth.

Johnny looked first at the shining figures—engulfed in their light even Clara seemed to be glowing—and then back to his mother's body on the bed. And seeing his mum's face, he was reminded of another. She looked just the same as the Diaquant, aged and frail, after he'd first taken her from the tower on Atlantis. And finally he understood. The Diaquant he'd rescued from Atlantis. The one who'd sent them through time to the present day. It was her. She
was
his mother. She was the reason for everything. While he'd thought she was comatose in her hospital bed, she'd been
watching over him all along. He turned away from the bed. “Mum,” he said simply. He walked forward and joined the other three members of his family in an embrace.

“Listen to me, my children,” said the Diaquant. “You must return to your world before the gateway closes.”

“But you're coming with us, aren't you?” asked Johnny. “Both of you.”

The Diaquant stroked his hair tenderly while shaking her head. “No, my love. From here on your father and I must take a separate path. There are different adventures ahead for all of us.”

“Will we see you again?” Clara asked.

“I hope so, my sweet,” said the Diaquant, smiling, but Johnny couldn't help thinking the smile looked forced. “But now you must go. I've slowed time for you to reach the tower, but even so you must be quick. Johnny—it will be for you to supply the power to the gateway. Clara—you will have to pry it open and find your way back. When you're on the other side, always remember you did this together.”

“Goodbye, son,” said Johnny's dad, squeezing him tightly for one last time. “Goodbye, princess,” he said, hugging Clara.

“Now go,” said the Diaquant, “and don't look back.”

Released from their parents' grip, Johnny and Clara made for the door, together with Bentley, who seemed to understand that now was the time to leave. Clara followed Bentley through the door, but Johnny turned to take one last look at his parents. His mother, the Diaquant, had collapsed into his father's arms and was weeping uncontrollably.

“Johnny … come on,” said Clara, grabbing him and pulling him away into the corridor. They ran hand in hand as Bentley led the way toward the main entrance. Everywhere lay bodies of the krun, twitching very occasionally, that they had to jump over.

Out of the main doors, in almost total darkness, Johnny
sprinted toward the incinerator tower. Bentley and Clara ran on toward the empty cabin on the edge of the grounds—the edge of the void—while Johnny felt for a door, found one, opened it and stepped inside. The tower was hollow, but its inner walls glowed faintly red—it was made of Atlantean orichalcum. Johnny stood at its foot and stretched out both arms so they just reached to either side. As he touched the red walls, there was a crackle of electricity through his fingers. The tower hummed with a background rhythm—like the strange music he'd heard before in the grounds of the Imperial Palace. Johnny added a simple melody. A line of blue sparks spread from both his hands until it encircled him. Johnny raised his head and looked upward, willing the song to move in that direction. Slowly, the circle of blue sparks began to rise above him, while another one formed in its place between his hands. Again, it rose up the column. He could feel the music beginning to flow through him, the exhilaration, as though this was what he'd been born to do. Another pulse of energy left his fingertips and rose up, then another.

“C'mon Johnny—it's open,” shouted Clara in the distance, but Johnny didn't want to leave. Not just yet. Not when he could do this. The pulses were almost continuous now, lighting up the insides of the tower with a brilliant blue glow. The music was becoming ever faster and more complex. Clara shouted again. “Quickly, Johnny—they're coming.”

Bentley entered through the open doorway and grabbed Johnny's foot, tugging at it for him to move. The spell was broken. Johnny took his hands away from the walls, and realized his fingers and palms were badly burned. Energy bolts were flying across the grounds outside. Johnny followed Bentley back out of the door, to see hundreds of krun running toward them across the field, firing their weapons.

He sped toward where Clara was—to where he could now see beyond the void to the little stone footbridge. A bolt from the krun almost hit him, causing him to do a forward roll on the lawn before getting to his feet and carrying on. He and Bentley reached Clara, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the opening. Johnny picked her up, despite the waves of pain that surged through his burned hands, and carried his sister through to the other side. Bentley turned and barked defiantly at the advancing krun. Johnny couldn't go on any more and dropped Clara down on the grassy bank by the side of the bridge. He looked back—the entrance was beginning to close.

“Bentley,” he called weakly, and the dog turned and leapt through the air as space itself folded shut around him. The ball of gray and white landed clumsily on the bank and couldn't stop himself rolling straight down into the little brook below. The water was flowing the right way now. Johnny turned. The gateway had closed. There were no more krun—just the rolling green and yellow fields of the Sussex countryside.

Clara put her arms around him. There were hot tears pouring down both their faces—Johnny didn't know whether they were hers or his. “It's not fair,” he heard himself saying. “I thought we could be a proper family, all together. Now we're so alone.”

Clara pulled herself away and looked at him through fiercely gleaming, teary blue and silver eyes. “We're not alone,” she said. “We'll never be alone. We've got each other,” and she hugged him and he hugged her and they sat together in each other's arms on the grassy bank.

Finally, after it seemed hours had passed, Johnny pulled himself away, got to his feet and asked, “Remember what Mum said to us? We've got our own adventures ahead. We should go home.” And together, two blond children and a
bedraggled Old English sheepdog walked back toward Wittonbury station and climbed into the black London taxi that was waiting.

It's impossible to write in isolation. From the earliest of ages I devoured book after book and it is inevitable that some of what I read will have resurfaced onto the pages of Johnny Mackintosh. Into the mix, I have tried to sprinkle traces of the science I learned later, to make Johnny's universe as plausible as I could while still fitting the story. The greatest of all scientists, Isaac Newton, once wrote, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” So to all those authors who gave me a much needed leg up, I offer my heartfelt thanks. Sadly, I was wearing neither glasses nor contacts that day, so my vision will have fallen well short of those I admire most.

My friends and family have been a never-ending source of inspiration and support. Many have read draft after draft, helping nudge the story in the right direction and encouraging me to keep writing when the distractions that repeatedly stop me completing anything threatened to overwhelm me. Special mentions must go to Craig, Donna, Stacy and, especially, to Jane. And, if Craig hadn't started writing his own books, the competitive monster within me would have lain dormant and Johnny would never have even begun his adventures.

Finally, a book is nothing without a publisher behind it and I am privileged to have had the backing of the very best. Having witnessed the support they have given me, it is no surprise that Quercus has quickly established itself as a player to be reckoned
with and there could be no better home from which to launch the Johnny Mackintosh stories. In children's editorial, Suzy Jenvey's belief in the book and my writing humbled me from the outset. When she moved on, I was privileged to have Roisin Heycock and Parul Bavishi take up the reins, improving the book and steering it to publication with immense skill and sensitivity. At their instigation, Mandy Norman created the magnificent cover design. Lucie Ewin of Rook Books devised the beautiful text design and managed the whole project superbly, as well as indulging all my (ridiculous) whims. Christine Kloet, the copy-editor, showed me what a clumsy job I have made of other people's manuscripts over the years—I'm thankful to her for honing my prose and removing several embarrassing errors that would otherwise have slipped through, and I'm grateful to Paul Lee the proofreader who found still more. Anthony Cheetham, who I thought would have far more important things to do with his time, has been an unstinting champion of Johnny Mackintosh throughout, while Mark Smith has been the most capable, helpful and approachable of CEOs.

Of course I have omitted countless names here. So many people work on a book nowadays that I cannot list everyone. And, at the time of writing, some crucial jobs have not even begun, so I am yet to encounter those involved. To all, I crave their indulgence and offer my thanks. My final mention, however, must be for Wayne Davies. Few people, can be so fortunate as to have a friend found a publishing house that later becomes the stable for their own books. I would like to think that, without Quercus, Johnny Mackintosh would have taken off elsewhere, but away from Wayne and Mark's company the experience for me, as author, would have paled in comparison.