So this is a short story based around the novel I've been writing, about a character called Oscar Harrison. I didn't want to give everything away about this character, but this basically highlights how he started off, and what happened to him before he came to the Blackout Society. I think I might be writing a good few more of these "How They Came About" stories, because this turned out to be pretty helpful in working out Oscar's background - so expect more of these as soon as I get round to them!
Hope you enjoy it,
Love,
Sarah xxx
p.s. I'll warn you now, this is a pretty long short story - I was thinking of doing it in installments, but I think that might have ruined it!
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Oscar.
The sky was streaked with yellow and orange, the city’s acrid breath, hanging in the cool, early evening air. People gushed past, weighed down with Christmas shopping; their faces long and drawn, dark shadows under their eyes; after a long day of barging down aisles and tearing down sale racks. The window displays were heaving with tacky, plastic reindeer and bedazzled baubles; coils of lights snaked round every streetlamp like poisonous ivy; and a short distance away a cluster of department store Christmas temps were huddled together, looking particularly disgruntled in their uniform: elf costumes, with pointed hats and lime green tights that left very little to the imagination.
He watched as they passed, intently taking in the scene from his private quarters. There were babies wrapped up warm in prams, strangers cooing and waving stupidly as they passed, their mothers’ smiling proudly as they did so. There were toddlers, too, sitting atop their father’s shoulders: to them, the tallest man in the world. They giggled and squealed in delight, kaliedescope eyes taking everything in. A six year old boy, hand in hand with his mother, was chattering away about the new bike he wanted for Christmas. A lump rose in his throat as he watched the boy go. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
Hunched over, the figure slowly unravelled himself from his stance. His limbs ached from the cold, his fingers blue and stiff. Despite the promise of snow by the weatherman, he wore only a long sleeved t-shirt and pair of beige cut-offs: both of which he’d salvaged from a Summer Clearance Sale a few weeks ago. His thick brown hair was to his shoulders in length, mangy and unkept. He stank of late night’s on the town and greasy kebab papers. His frame was scrawny; his long limbs as thin as brittle twigs. An aura hung around him. A strange pale light that set him apart from the other city goers on the streets that night. Hoplesness. Loneliness. Guilt for being who he was; ashamed of what he had become.
He was only seven. A year older than the boy, hand in hand with his mother, talking about Christmas and presents and shiny new bikes. A year ago, Oscar would’ve been doing the very same thing. Christmas - the best day of the year! The time when a huge tree, taller than any of his friends’, is heaved into the corner of the living room, and he and his parents don it with tinsel and sparkle. The time when Grandma comes over, once a year, sun kissed and hair golden streaked, fresh from her time in Austrailia. Grandma was famous for a lot of things; her operatic voice, her million pound smile. But for Oscar, it was all about the Christmas cake. She’d have him stand on a stool beside him, in the hallowed kitchen with it’s shop-shiny worktops and high-spec gadgets, and have him stir the mix. For the first time in the entire year, the house would seem alive…The fantastical smell of rich Christmassy goodness. As he stirred and stirred, Grandma would turn to him and say the same thing she said every year.
Make a wish. Anything you want.
For every Christmas to be as good as this one, He’d grin, as he hastily helped prepare the marzipan. Probably doing more harm than good, but enjoying every minute of it.
For every Christmas to be as good as this one.
How very wrong he’d been.
He stalked across the desert plains; the Secret World of the City. His Kingdom, his Realm. Here, he was King. He was commander of his grey-winged lieutenants, pacing his battlements and barricades, beady-eyes staking out the defences, warding off those who did not belong. Only the bravest of electricians or builders dared trespass upon Oscar’s land, and they never lastest longer than a few seldom hours, before the Secret World’s King grew tired of their scampering and noise. He, of course, would set them straight. Send them on their way. Only he, King Harrison the Heroic, had the power to master the Secret World, after all.
Oscar grinned as he reached his first battle. Leaping forwards, without need for a starting run, he hung rather comically in the air for a few seconds, before bouncing off of gravity itself and searing through the sky like a firework. His ancient trainers smacked off of shingles as he zig-zagged across the rooftops, a blur that an on-looker would easily mistake as the wind itself. He somersaulted off of a penthouse apartment’s balcony, not even stopping for breath as he tuck’n’rolled across the block of high-rise council flats, before finally pausing half way across Burbury Street, swinging like a child in a play park on a creaking old flag pole. His cackles of glee were lost to the noise below as he vaulted once more, a hanging spectre in the city skyline, before divebombing his destination point: The Palace Hotel.
The Palace had been his home ever since the accident: or rather, ever since the arrangement that followed the accident. It was situated by the old railway bridge, on Wimsley Street, you know the place? It’s roars with nightlife and not much else. Not the fancy bars and clubs, with the strobe lighting and smoke machines, and fancy finger food carried around on platters. This was the nastier side to the night’s favourite venue: a long road of dimly lit basement affairs, where the air was thick with ciggarette smoke and drunken guffaws. A number of flashy casinos lined the roadside, with back-stabbing deals advertised in their shop fronts, and assistants with gold teeth and greased back hair spoke with oozing, hypnotic voices that left you penniless and desperate for more. Needless to say, The Palace was no five star accomidation. It was a place for dodgy deals and secret affairs; there was damp walls, and chipped tiles, and walls that shook when the King’s Cross to Waverley Station rocketed past in the night. Nevertheless, The Palace was a palace, and that was good enough for him.
Oscar liked to think he had the fanciest of suites, and thinking about it, he probably did. His penthouse was situated on the fourth floor of the three-floored building; ‘the perfect city getaway’ read the imaginary pamphlet in his head.
The belltower wasn’t really a fancy suite, but neither was it a belltower. The bell had been removed a few years ago, after a nasty incident in which a Mr Robert Thomspon was taken to hospital, after the bell fell through the ceiling while he took a shower. He was in a for a nasty surprise, when, three hours later, he found his wife sitting on one side of bed, and his girlfriend on the other (The classic Palace love story, that most probably ended up on The Jeremy Kyle Show a few weeks later, once Mr Thompson recovered from his second stint in hospital: something to do with his wife accidentally poisioning his sheperd’s pie…). The tower, however, was left in reasonable condition. It was boarded up with wooden planks on three of it’s four sides, though somebody of unique, super-human strength would quite easily be able to pry said wood apart and make a home for himself in there.
Which is precisely what Oscar did.
He ducked down into the tower, smiling at his own handiwork as he did so, and pulled the thick, dusty rug he’d found rolled up next to a dustbin back - enclosing him in his surprisingly cosey den. Plastering the wooden planks, in attempt to make the place more homely, where pictures of all of his favourite things. News articles on the Formula One Grand Prix; magazine clippings of speed-boats and classic racing cars; even an Adventure Holiday pamphlet, advertising sky-diving trips and bunjeejumping days out. Go-karting, quad biking, and water skiing events had also been added to his eye-watering collection; along with a leaflet with the heading: MONSTER TRUCK: TO CRUSH OR NOT TO CRUSH. Taking centre stage, however, were his most prized additions. Motorbike manual after motorbike manual lined the walls, with his own pencilled sketches of complex engines and wheels alongside them. A tantalising hunger roared through Oscar whenever he heard the Catherine Wheel’s scream of a motorbike accelerating through the streets. The purr of a stirring monster, about to pounce on it’s tarmac pray, and leave its lowly competition in the dust.
Oscar settled down on the comfortable leather backed armchair that belonged in a manor house, not a belltower. He pulled a tartan throw around himself and stared around his den, trying to ignore the howling of the city all around him. His stomach grumbled audibly, making him start. He’d snacked on some leftovers a young couple had left at their outdoor table of that Italian resteraunt down the street…And the nice old lady who’d handed him a two pound coin had paid for a cup of coffee from McDonalds. But leftovers and caffeine weren’t enough. His stomach grumbled again, and his head began to ache, and all of a sudden he yearned for his Grandma’s Christmas cake more than ever.
He wondered were Grandma was, now. She’d been in Austrailia when the accident had occurred, though she’d been at the airport before Mum had even had time to disengage the call. It had been Grandma who’d been at his bedside when he’d finally stirred from unconciousness, dabbing his burning skin with a wet flannel and staring into his eyes with a look of terrible despair. Grandma was a sell-out singing sensation; she’d toured every opera house worthy of her presence…But even she couldn’t stop what came next.
Digging deep into his cut-off’s pockets, he carefully retrieved a square of paper. He unfolded it slowly, careful of it’s fragile skin. The picture was taken on a night quite like this: with the tantalising taste of Christmas on everyone's taste buds. They stood side by side, two figures he longed for every night. His mother: a whirlwind of designer heels and perfume, with a fantastical smile that never truly met her eyes, and a perfect pout that could turn you to dust. Beside her, was his father, a tall brooding man in an Armani suit. He reminded Oscar, even now, of a Roman Emperor, what with his sharp, angular looks and powerful, skin-tingling eyes. He barely suppressed a golden, angelic glow of brilliance that made you bow your head and wring your hands. Scrap Roman Emperor, Oscar decided, Try Roman God. Standing between mother and father, was son, of course. He couldn’t have looked more different than he did now. Cropped brown hair, fantastic green eyes, and a neatly pressed sweater and stiff shirt collar. He was grinning up at the camera, clasping a forlorn looking teddy bear to his stomach.
One day, Oscar feared, he’d lose the picture.
Worse, however, did he fear he may treasure it forever, but stop recognizing himself anymore. Oscar had known it from the minute he’d woken to his Grandma dabbing his forehead with a wet flannel and a look of blatant terror. With losing, you know what you have lost, and therefore know what must be sought. But with forgetting, you could walk right past your greatest desire, yearning for it desperately, never realizing you'd know exactly how to have it for yourself, should you only remember what your own mind lost. It was for this reason that Oscar never stopped visiting the high street, never stopped watching from afar, as families past him by on pavements, never giving him a second glance. He might have lost what he once had; but he refused to lose the memory of it, too.
It was at this moment that there was a knock at the door.
This, you’ll probably understand, is not a very regular occurance, when your door is a mouldy old carpet hanging from the ceiling of an old belltower. But, nevertheless, there was a knock. Stubborn and thorough, and yet not necessarily nasty. Oscar tried to calm himself. The police? The social work? The Palace owner? Perhaps even Mr Thompson, seeking revenge on the bell which had ruined his marriage, and landed him as the next target for Jeremy Kyle to humiliate further.
“Mr Harrison, we know you’re in there. Please come out.”
Oscar sucked in a shuddering breath, “Leave me alone.”
“We’re not here to hurt you, Mr Harrison, we’re here to help you.”
“I don’t need help!” Oscar snapped, “I’m fine on my own!”
Suddenly he felt angry. Like someone had flicked a switch and in a few seconds he was going to detonate like a sack of burning dynamite. This was his place. He’d lost his home once, he certainly wasn’t going to lose his second. And what harm was he doing, anyway? A seven-year-old boy, with only a tatty old picture for company. Where they going to threaten him? Drag him away, and lock him up? He didn’t want to get locked up. He needed to be free. He needed to run and run and run, never stopping, never pausing, not for a minute. This was where Oscar belonged: the Secret World. His Secret World. Nobody - not anybody - dared disturb The King of the Rooftops in his own home. Oscar hissed through his teeth, balling his fists in anger as the white-hot flames of pent-up rage slowly licked away at any childish fear.
Licked away at everything, anything it could get it’s hands on. He let it engulf him, he did not fight it. He wanted it: to fuel him, to drive him, to infest him. This was him. This was who he was. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anything. Oscar just wanted to bite, and tear, and break. He balled the photograph in his palm and howled with laughter. Oscar Harrison was King. Oscar Harrison was free. And it was going to stay that way, if he had anything to say about it.
“Mr Harrison -” The voice began, but Mr Harrison wasn’t around anymore.
Bursting through the motheaten rug came a ferocious creature, that made the unexpected visitor stumble and fall over his long black coat. The creature was hunched over, trembling from head to toe as uncanny amounts of adrenhline began to override its’ systems. The creature jerked, toothy grin twitching sickeningly as the fource of power raged through it’s body. Powerless, the child lost control of his own body. “Freakin’ Eridina,” The visitor mumbled under his breath, “This is not good.”
The creature cackled, like a hyena after it had turned it’s prey to a pile of bones, throwing back it’s head with a yap of glee. It was covered head to toe in shaggy, matted, chestnut fur, with claws as long as that of a polar bear, and teeth as sharp as that of a pirhanas: dripping saliva onto the floor. The creature growled, like a motorbike kickstaring it’s engine, slowly…slowly…advancing. Teasing it’s pray. Cocking it’s head slightly, the man - now stuck amongst the chimney pots - watched in horror as the creature’s emerald eyes faded to two pools of liquid gold. It was a sign. A sign he had heard of, believed in, studied…Never witnessed until now.
“Woah there,” The man said quietly, “Woah there boy…”
The creature giggled again, now so close that it’s nuzzle was pressed against the man’s neck, it’s hot breath searing on his pasty skin.
“Oscar Harrison -” The visitor mumbled, shaking from head to foot, “I, I am from the Circle of Covenship…We have been led to believe that you are using magic to aid your surivival and deceive mortals…Because of this, the Circlets have deemed you unsafe to both mortal and witching societies, and have asked that you come quietly to one of our confindes were you will not, um, h-harm anyone…further,” The man gulfed, his entire body soaked in sweat. The creature could see him clearly now, as it’s eyes readjusted. He was potbellied and quivering; and would make for a tasty snack, that was for sure. Beneath his raincoat was a fancy suit and mustard cravat, and the creature instantly recognized the designer material that his clothes were made from. The same material someone it had once known used to wear…Someone it loathed even more than the man who dared disturb it’s privacy…
From behind the creature there was a gruff bark, “Cub. Stand aside.”
The creature growled, “I am no cub.”
“You are to me.”
The creature barked, angered, and the visitor whimpered further. Slowly, the creature turned to face the newcomer. Towering over him was a wolf twice the creature’s size, with cold blue eyes that made the creature yearn for icy woods and frozen wastelands.
“This is my home,” The creature who had once been Oscar growled.
The second creature looked around the Secret World of the City, “This is no home for a cub of my kin, child.”
The cub’s eyes flashed. “You are with him, aren’t you. The trespasser.”
“This man?” The larger wolf laughed, “I wouldn’t go near him with a long stick, cub. He is a different breed, a different kind. This man is the puppet of evil. This man is the follower of my greatest enemy.”
The creature sniffed. It might have been able to take on the man - easily, in fact - but this newcomer was beyond it’s strength.
“I want to kill him,” The cub whimpered, desperate now. It’s gold eyes filled with despair. “I want to kill that man.”
“You are not ready for that burden, boy,” The wolf sighed.
“No,” The cub agreed, “I suppose I’m not.”
And then the creature felt it again, the excruciating white-hot pain he’d felt before. Only this time, he did not crave it, he despised it. He felt it move through his body, cracking his spine, splintering his bones. The creature yowled in pain as it became human once more, the monster switching places with a boy with shoulder length hair and a trembling frame. He looked up, face etched with hunger and fear, and came face to face with a man in a leather biker’s jacket and a pair of ripped up jeans. He had shaggy black hair, as dark as the fur of the wolf who had stood before Oscar moments ago, and the same pericing blue eyes.
“You don’t belong here, son,” The man said, helping the shivering boy to his feet.
The boy burst into tears, sobs raking through his body. He was too terrified to be embarrassed, to feel ashamed of crying. “I don’t belong anywhere,” He hiccupped. “I don’t belong anywhere at all.”
The man shook his head, kneeling down beside Oscar. “There is a place. There is a place for people like you.”
The boy shook his head, “I’m going to be locked up, aren’t I? Your going to lock me up and - and - I’ll never find a home, will I? I’ll never get back to my family -”
“We’re your family now, son,” The biker said, his voice gruff but kind.
“We?” Oscar sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes and trying to ignore the skin-tingling pain that was tearing through his body.
That when he noticied them. There must have been about thirty or so. Tall and burly, men and women alike, encircling Oscar. Protecting him from harm. They all wore the same black leather jackets, and had helmets tucked beneath their arms. He knew he should have been afraid of these people, with their brooding looks and nasty grimaces, but he knew they weren’t terrifying. They weren’t dangerous.
A woman stepped forwards, out of the shadow of the night, and into the pool of gold that the belltower’s security light projected into the centre. She must have been forty, but could still pull off a leather catsuit with ease. She had long blonde hair, plaited like a warrior princess’, with a clay-beaded necklace around her neck. She grinned at him, and winked.
“Welcome aboard, honey,” She said, in a thick, honey-sweet Texan accent, “It’s time you found yourself a pack.”
He watched as they passed, intently taking in the scene from his private quarters. There were babies wrapped up warm in prams, strangers cooing and waving stupidly as they passed, their mothers’ smiling proudly as they did so. There were toddlers, too, sitting atop their father’s shoulders: to them, the tallest man in the world. They giggled and squealed in delight, kaliedescope eyes taking everything in. A six year old boy, hand in hand with his mother, was chattering away about the new bike he wanted for Christmas. A lump rose in his throat as he watched the boy go. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
Hunched over, the figure slowly unravelled himself from his stance. His limbs ached from the cold, his fingers blue and stiff. Despite the promise of snow by the weatherman, he wore only a long sleeved t-shirt and pair of beige cut-offs: both of which he’d salvaged from a Summer Clearance Sale a few weeks ago. His thick brown hair was to his shoulders in length, mangy and unkept. He stank of late night’s on the town and greasy kebab papers. His frame was scrawny; his long limbs as thin as brittle twigs. An aura hung around him. A strange pale light that set him apart from the other city goers on the streets that night. Hoplesness. Loneliness. Guilt for being who he was; ashamed of what he had become.
He was only seven. A year older than the boy, hand in hand with his mother, talking about Christmas and presents and shiny new bikes. A year ago, Oscar would’ve been doing the very same thing. Christmas - the best day of the year! The time when a huge tree, taller than any of his friends’, is heaved into the corner of the living room, and he and his parents don it with tinsel and sparkle. The time when Grandma comes over, once a year, sun kissed and hair golden streaked, fresh from her time in Austrailia. Grandma was famous for a lot of things; her operatic voice, her million pound smile. But for Oscar, it was all about the Christmas cake. She’d have him stand on a stool beside him, in the hallowed kitchen with it’s shop-shiny worktops and high-spec gadgets, and have him stir the mix. For the first time in the entire year, the house would seem alive…The fantastical smell of rich Christmassy goodness. As he stirred and stirred, Grandma would turn to him and say the same thing she said every year.
Make a wish. Anything you want.
For every Christmas to be as good as this one, He’d grin, as he hastily helped prepare the marzipan. Probably doing more harm than good, but enjoying every minute of it.
For every Christmas to be as good as this one.
How very wrong he’d been.
He stalked across the desert plains; the Secret World of the City. His Kingdom, his Realm. Here, he was King. He was commander of his grey-winged lieutenants, pacing his battlements and barricades, beady-eyes staking out the defences, warding off those who did not belong. Only the bravest of electricians or builders dared trespass upon Oscar’s land, and they never lastest longer than a few seldom hours, before the Secret World’s King grew tired of their scampering and noise. He, of course, would set them straight. Send them on their way. Only he, King Harrison the Heroic, had the power to master the Secret World, after all.
Oscar grinned as he reached his first battle. Leaping forwards, without need for a starting run, he hung rather comically in the air for a few seconds, before bouncing off of gravity itself and searing through the sky like a firework. His ancient trainers smacked off of shingles as he zig-zagged across the rooftops, a blur that an on-looker would easily mistake as the wind itself. He somersaulted off of a penthouse apartment’s balcony, not even stopping for breath as he tuck’n’rolled across the block of high-rise council flats, before finally pausing half way across Burbury Street, swinging like a child in a play park on a creaking old flag pole. His cackles of glee were lost to the noise below as he vaulted once more, a hanging spectre in the city skyline, before divebombing his destination point: The Palace Hotel.
The Palace had been his home ever since the accident: or rather, ever since the arrangement that followed the accident. It was situated by the old railway bridge, on Wimsley Street, you know the place? It’s roars with nightlife and not much else. Not the fancy bars and clubs, with the strobe lighting and smoke machines, and fancy finger food carried around on platters. This was the nastier side to the night’s favourite venue: a long road of dimly lit basement affairs, where the air was thick with ciggarette smoke and drunken guffaws. A number of flashy casinos lined the roadside, with back-stabbing deals advertised in their shop fronts, and assistants with gold teeth and greased back hair spoke with oozing, hypnotic voices that left you penniless and desperate for more. Needless to say, The Palace was no five star accomidation. It was a place for dodgy deals and secret affairs; there was damp walls, and chipped tiles, and walls that shook when the King’s Cross to Waverley Station rocketed past in the night. Nevertheless, The Palace was a palace, and that was good enough for him.
Oscar liked to think he had the fanciest of suites, and thinking about it, he probably did. His penthouse was situated on the fourth floor of the three-floored building; ‘the perfect city getaway’ read the imaginary pamphlet in his head.
The belltower wasn’t really a fancy suite, but neither was it a belltower. The bell had been removed a few years ago, after a nasty incident in which a Mr Robert Thomspon was taken to hospital, after the bell fell through the ceiling while he took a shower. He was in a for a nasty surprise, when, three hours later, he found his wife sitting on one side of bed, and his girlfriend on the other (The classic Palace love story, that most probably ended up on The Jeremy Kyle Show a few weeks later, once Mr Thompson recovered from his second stint in hospital: something to do with his wife accidentally poisioning his sheperd’s pie…). The tower, however, was left in reasonable condition. It was boarded up with wooden planks on three of it’s four sides, though somebody of unique, super-human strength would quite easily be able to pry said wood apart and make a home for himself in there.
Which is precisely what Oscar did.
He ducked down into the tower, smiling at his own handiwork as he did so, and pulled the thick, dusty rug he’d found rolled up next to a dustbin back - enclosing him in his surprisingly cosey den. Plastering the wooden planks, in attempt to make the place more homely, where pictures of all of his favourite things. News articles on the Formula One Grand Prix; magazine clippings of speed-boats and classic racing cars; even an Adventure Holiday pamphlet, advertising sky-diving trips and bunjeejumping days out. Go-karting, quad biking, and water skiing events had also been added to his eye-watering collection; along with a leaflet with the heading: MONSTER TRUCK: TO CRUSH OR NOT TO CRUSH. Taking centre stage, however, were his most prized additions. Motorbike manual after motorbike manual lined the walls, with his own pencilled sketches of complex engines and wheels alongside them. A tantalising hunger roared through Oscar whenever he heard the Catherine Wheel’s scream of a motorbike accelerating through the streets. The purr of a stirring monster, about to pounce on it’s tarmac pray, and leave its lowly competition in the dust.
Oscar settled down on the comfortable leather backed armchair that belonged in a manor house, not a belltower. He pulled a tartan throw around himself and stared around his den, trying to ignore the howling of the city all around him. His stomach grumbled audibly, making him start. He’d snacked on some leftovers a young couple had left at their outdoor table of that Italian resteraunt down the street…And the nice old lady who’d handed him a two pound coin had paid for a cup of coffee from McDonalds. But leftovers and caffeine weren’t enough. His stomach grumbled again, and his head began to ache, and all of a sudden he yearned for his Grandma’s Christmas cake more than ever.
He wondered were Grandma was, now. She’d been in Austrailia when the accident had occurred, though she’d been at the airport before Mum had even had time to disengage the call. It had been Grandma who’d been at his bedside when he’d finally stirred from unconciousness, dabbing his burning skin with a wet flannel and staring into his eyes with a look of terrible despair. Grandma was a sell-out singing sensation; she’d toured every opera house worthy of her presence…But even she couldn’t stop what came next.
Digging deep into his cut-off’s pockets, he carefully retrieved a square of paper. He unfolded it slowly, careful of it’s fragile skin. The picture was taken on a night quite like this: with the tantalising taste of Christmas on everyone's taste buds. They stood side by side, two figures he longed for every night. His mother: a whirlwind of designer heels and perfume, with a fantastical smile that never truly met her eyes, and a perfect pout that could turn you to dust. Beside her, was his father, a tall brooding man in an Armani suit. He reminded Oscar, even now, of a Roman Emperor, what with his sharp, angular looks and powerful, skin-tingling eyes. He barely suppressed a golden, angelic glow of brilliance that made you bow your head and wring your hands. Scrap Roman Emperor, Oscar decided, Try Roman God. Standing between mother and father, was son, of course. He couldn’t have looked more different than he did now. Cropped brown hair, fantastic green eyes, and a neatly pressed sweater and stiff shirt collar. He was grinning up at the camera, clasping a forlorn looking teddy bear to his stomach.
One day, Oscar feared, he’d lose the picture.
Worse, however, did he fear he may treasure it forever, but stop recognizing himself anymore. Oscar had known it from the minute he’d woken to his Grandma dabbing his forehead with a wet flannel and a look of blatant terror. With losing, you know what you have lost, and therefore know what must be sought. But with forgetting, you could walk right past your greatest desire, yearning for it desperately, never realizing you'd know exactly how to have it for yourself, should you only remember what your own mind lost. It was for this reason that Oscar never stopped visiting the high street, never stopped watching from afar, as families past him by on pavements, never giving him a second glance. He might have lost what he once had; but he refused to lose the memory of it, too.
It was at this moment that there was a knock at the door.
This, you’ll probably understand, is not a very regular occurance, when your door is a mouldy old carpet hanging from the ceiling of an old belltower. But, nevertheless, there was a knock. Stubborn and thorough, and yet not necessarily nasty. Oscar tried to calm himself. The police? The social work? The Palace owner? Perhaps even Mr Thompson, seeking revenge on the bell which had ruined his marriage, and landed him as the next target for Jeremy Kyle to humiliate further.
“Mr Harrison, we know you’re in there. Please come out.”
Oscar sucked in a shuddering breath, “Leave me alone.”
“We’re not here to hurt you, Mr Harrison, we’re here to help you.”
“I don’t need help!” Oscar snapped, “I’m fine on my own!”
Suddenly he felt angry. Like someone had flicked a switch and in a few seconds he was going to detonate like a sack of burning dynamite. This was his place. He’d lost his home once, he certainly wasn’t going to lose his second. And what harm was he doing, anyway? A seven-year-old boy, with only a tatty old picture for company. Where they going to threaten him? Drag him away, and lock him up? He didn’t want to get locked up. He needed to be free. He needed to run and run and run, never stopping, never pausing, not for a minute. This was where Oscar belonged: the Secret World. His Secret World. Nobody - not anybody - dared disturb The King of the Rooftops in his own home. Oscar hissed through his teeth, balling his fists in anger as the white-hot flames of pent-up rage slowly licked away at any childish fear.
Licked away at everything, anything it could get it’s hands on. He let it engulf him, he did not fight it. He wanted it: to fuel him, to drive him, to infest him. This was him. This was who he was. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anything. Oscar just wanted to bite, and tear, and break. He balled the photograph in his palm and howled with laughter. Oscar Harrison was King. Oscar Harrison was free. And it was going to stay that way, if he had anything to say about it.
“Mr Harrison -” The voice began, but Mr Harrison wasn’t around anymore.
Bursting through the motheaten rug came a ferocious creature, that made the unexpected visitor stumble and fall over his long black coat. The creature was hunched over, trembling from head to toe as uncanny amounts of adrenhline began to override its’ systems. The creature jerked, toothy grin twitching sickeningly as the fource of power raged through it’s body. Powerless, the child lost control of his own body. “Freakin’ Eridina,” The visitor mumbled under his breath, “This is not good.”
The creature cackled, like a hyena after it had turned it’s prey to a pile of bones, throwing back it’s head with a yap of glee. It was covered head to toe in shaggy, matted, chestnut fur, with claws as long as that of a polar bear, and teeth as sharp as that of a pirhanas: dripping saliva onto the floor. The creature growled, like a motorbike kickstaring it’s engine, slowly…slowly…advancing. Teasing it’s pray. Cocking it’s head slightly, the man - now stuck amongst the chimney pots - watched in horror as the creature’s emerald eyes faded to two pools of liquid gold. It was a sign. A sign he had heard of, believed in, studied…Never witnessed until now.
“Woah there,” The man said quietly, “Woah there boy…”
The creature giggled again, now so close that it’s nuzzle was pressed against the man’s neck, it’s hot breath searing on his pasty skin.
“Oscar Harrison -” The visitor mumbled, shaking from head to foot, “I, I am from the Circle of Covenship…We have been led to believe that you are using magic to aid your surivival and deceive mortals…Because of this, the Circlets have deemed you unsafe to both mortal and witching societies, and have asked that you come quietly to one of our confindes were you will not, um, h-harm anyone…further,” The man gulfed, his entire body soaked in sweat. The creature could see him clearly now, as it’s eyes readjusted. He was potbellied and quivering; and would make for a tasty snack, that was for sure. Beneath his raincoat was a fancy suit and mustard cravat, and the creature instantly recognized the designer material that his clothes were made from. The same material someone it had once known used to wear…Someone it loathed even more than the man who dared disturb it’s privacy…
From behind the creature there was a gruff bark, “Cub. Stand aside.”
The creature growled, “I am no cub.”
“You are to me.”
The creature barked, angered, and the visitor whimpered further. Slowly, the creature turned to face the newcomer. Towering over him was a wolf twice the creature’s size, with cold blue eyes that made the creature yearn for icy woods and frozen wastelands.
“This is my home,” The creature who had once been Oscar growled.
The second creature looked around the Secret World of the City, “This is no home for a cub of my kin, child.”
The cub’s eyes flashed. “You are with him, aren’t you. The trespasser.”
“This man?” The larger wolf laughed, “I wouldn’t go near him with a long stick, cub. He is a different breed, a different kind. This man is the puppet of evil. This man is the follower of my greatest enemy.”
The creature sniffed. It might have been able to take on the man - easily, in fact - but this newcomer was beyond it’s strength.
“I want to kill him,” The cub whimpered, desperate now. It’s gold eyes filled with despair. “I want to kill that man.”
“You are not ready for that burden, boy,” The wolf sighed.
“No,” The cub agreed, “I suppose I’m not.”
And then the creature felt it again, the excruciating white-hot pain he’d felt before. Only this time, he did not crave it, he despised it. He felt it move through his body, cracking his spine, splintering his bones. The creature yowled in pain as it became human once more, the monster switching places with a boy with shoulder length hair and a trembling frame. He looked up, face etched with hunger and fear, and came face to face with a man in a leather biker’s jacket and a pair of ripped up jeans. He had shaggy black hair, as dark as the fur of the wolf who had stood before Oscar moments ago, and the same pericing blue eyes.
“You don’t belong here, son,” The man said, helping the shivering boy to his feet.
The boy burst into tears, sobs raking through his body. He was too terrified to be embarrassed, to feel ashamed of crying. “I don’t belong anywhere,” He hiccupped. “I don’t belong anywhere at all.”
The man shook his head, kneeling down beside Oscar. “There is a place. There is a place for people like you.”
The boy shook his head, “I’m going to be locked up, aren’t I? Your going to lock me up and - and - I’ll never find a home, will I? I’ll never get back to my family -”
“We’re your family now, son,” The biker said, his voice gruff but kind.
“We?” Oscar sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes and trying to ignore the skin-tingling pain that was tearing through his body.
That when he noticied them. There must have been about thirty or so. Tall and burly, men and women alike, encircling Oscar. Protecting him from harm. They all wore the same black leather jackets, and had helmets tucked beneath their arms. He knew he should have been afraid of these people, with their brooding looks and nasty grimaces, but he knew they weren’t terrifying. They weren’t dangerous.
A woman stepped forwards, out of the shadow of the night, and into the pool of gold that the belltower’s security light projected into the centre. She must have been forty, but could still pull off a leather catsuit with ease. She had long blonde hair, plaited like a warrior princess’, with a clay-beaded necklace around her neck. She grinned at him, and winked.
“Welcome aboard, honey,” She said, in a thick, honey-sweet Texan accent, “It’s time you found yourself a pack.”
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