iBoy (16 page)

You don’t have to be crazy to put on a shiny costume and battle evil — but it doesn’t hurt.

http://io9.com/5228906/top-10-greatest-mentally-ill-superheroes

Gram was just coming out of the bathroom when I got back home.

“I thought you were going to see Lucy?” she said to me.

“Yeah, I was . . . I am. I’m just . . . I forgot something.”

She looked at me, waiting for me to tell her what I’d forgotten.

“My phone,” I said. “I left it in my room.”

“Right,” she said. “What’s that on your hands?”

“What?”

“You’ve got red paint on your hands.”

I looked at my hands, quickly trying to think of an explanation. “Oh, yeah . . . there was some graffiti on Lucy’s door. You know . . . really nasty stuff. I tried to clean it off.”

Gram sighed, shaking her head. “Why can’t they just leave her alone? I mean, God knows she’s been through enough already.”

I shrugged. “It’s what they do, Gram.”

“I know,” she said, sighing again. “It’s just . . . well, you know . . .”

“Yeah.”

She looked at me. “Is Lucy OK with you going to see her?”

“Yeah, I think so . . . I mean, she
said
it was all right. And she seemed to get
some
thing out of me being there . . .” I shrugged. “I’m not sure what.”

Gram smiled. “She likes you, she always has. Do you remember that time when she asked you to marry her?”

“
Marry
her?”

Gram nodded. “It was ages ago, you must have been about six or seven . . . the two of you were sitting on the floor in the front room, playing with some Legos or something, and she just turned to you and said, ‘Will you marry me when I’m older?’”

“Really? What did I say?”

Gram thought about it for a moment, then smiled again. “I don’t think you said anything. I think you just started crying.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like me. I always was pretty slick with the ladies.”

While Gram went back to her writing, I went into my room to pretend to look for my phone. I was still feeling drained, and I took the opportunity to sit down on the edge of my bed for a few moments to recharge myself before I went back up to Lucy’s.

As I was sitting there, going over in my mind what had happened with O’Neil and the others, trying to work out if I’d made things better or worse, I sensed Lucy logging on to her Facebook page, and a few minutes later there was a message from her in my inbox.

iBoy,
it said,
was that you just now?

I messaged back:
was that
who
just now?

i know it WAS you,
she replied.
who ARE you?

i’m whoever you want me to be.

I logged off.

My mind was too buzzy for resting now. I got up off the bed, got my jacket, and went back up to the thirtieth floor.

Slag, bitch, whore
. . . I knew that they were only words, and that words — so they say — can never hurt you, but as I stood outside Lucy’s flat, gazing at those ugly words painted crudely on the wall and the door, I knew that they
did
hurt.

I held out my hand, palm first, toward the wall . . . and then I closed my eyes and concentrated. After a moment or two, I began to feel an energy between the wall and my hand . . . a tangible resistance, like a magnetic field. And when I opened my eyes and started moving my hand over the painted words, gently pushing the resistance into the paint, the graffiti began to flake off.

It didn’t take long, and when I’d finished, and all traces of the graffiti were gone, I used the same scouring energy to clean the remnants of paint off my hands, and then I knocked on Lucy’s door.

Her mum was out — she worked at the local Tesco’s — and Ben had gone out, too, so Lucy was on her own. Which I didn’t think was a good idea, especially after she’d just had a visit from half a dozen Crows. But as far as Lucy was concerned, I didn’t know anything about that, so I just kept my mouth shut and made a mental note to have a quiet — and possibly threatening — word with Ben the next time I saw him.

“You’ll never
guess
what just happened, Tom,” Lucy said as we sat down together on the settee in the front room.

“You won the lottery?” I said.

“No, no . . . this was just now, about half an hour ago . . .” She shook her head. “God, it was
so
weird. I can still hardly
believe
it.”

She started telling me all about O’Neil and the others then — how she’d been really scared when she’d realized they were outside, and they’d started calling out through the mail slot . . . and then she’d heard another voice outside, followed by the sounds of struggling — shouts and yells, running feet — and she’d peeked through the mail slot and seen this
really
weird-looking kid with multicolored skin squaring up to O’Neil . . .

“. . . I mean, his skin was really shimmering, Tom. Honestly. It was like he was covered in neon tattoos or something, and the tattoos were moving . . . but they
weren’t
tattoos . . .”

It was incredibly strange, listening to her telling me the story. Partly because I had to pretend that it was all new to me, so I had to keep going —
What? No . . . really?
— and partly because Lucy seemed so energized now, so full of life, just like the old Lucy, and I didn’t know how that made me feel. On the one hand, obviously, it made me feel great. I mean, Lucy seemed to be getting back to her old self again — what could possibly be wrong with that? But on the other hand . . . well, there wasn’t anything
wrong
with it. Nothing at all. But I suppose, if I’m totally honest, I felt just a tiny bit jealous. She was so excited, so thrilled, so curious about this mysterious stranger who’d come galloping to her rescue . . . and I wanted her to know that it was me. I wanted her to be excited about
me
, not about iBoy. And I know that sounds pathetic — and selfish and childish and whatever else you want to call it — but, like I said, I’m just trying to be honest here. And that’s how I felt.

“Tom?” I heard her say. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry,” I said, looking at her. “I was just —”

“Do you think it’s him?”

“Who?”

She sighed. “The Facebook guy, the one I just
told
you about. Do you think it’s the same person?”

“The same as who?”

“The
other
one,” she said impatiently. “The one who tried to throw O’Neil out the window.”

“Oh, right,” I said, pretending to suddenly get it. “So you think this Facebook guy might be the hero guy, is that it?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

I shrugged. “Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, this guy you saw in the corridor, the one with the weird skin . . . are you sure he was real?”

“Of
course
he was
real
. What else could he be?” She shook her head angrily. “What are you trying to say, Tom? You think I made him
up
?”

“No . . . no, I didn’t mean that, I just meant . . . maybe you were tired or something, you know . . .”

She glared at me. “I know what I
saw
, Tom. I mean, if you don’t believe me —”

“I believe you —”

“You can ask Ben if you want. He was there, too. He saw him, he’ll tell you. If you don’t believe me —”

“OK, OK,” I said, holding my hands up. “I
said
I believed you, didn’t I? I
believe
you, Luce.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, honestly . . . I was just . . .”

“What? You were just what?”

“Nothing. I don’t know . . . I was just being stupid. Sorry.”

She looked at me, shaking her head. “You’re such an idiot sometimes.”

“I know . . . sorry.”

She carried on glaring at me for a second or two, but she’d never been able to stay angry with me for very long, and after a while her eyes slowly softened and her face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, well,” she said. “You don’t have to apologize to me for being stupid. I’m used to it.”