Page 105 of Only a Monster

Tom sighed. He fished a key from his pocket with the air of someone who had permission to come and go as he pleased. But his hand shook as he slotted the key into the lock and turned it. Joan wondered when he’d last used it. He pushed open the door.

‘Oh,’ Joan breathed. She’d seen the front of the Liu property—the gallery and courtyard—but she’d underestimated the size of the estate.

Before them was a garden, artless and overgrown. The house had to be close, but by a trick of perspective, the greenery seemed endless. They could have been in the countryside. Wild crocuses and honeysuckle poked through the long grass. Joan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Bees hummed. Somewhere, water was trickling. The air smelled of honey and sunshine.

Tom was a contrast to the serene garden. He shifted back and forth with the contained energy of a boxer. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘in this time, he hasn’t been taken yet—he hasn’t been forced to become the archive.’ He almost spat the word. ‘He won’t know that the hero was created by monsters. He won’t even know that the hero is real yet. It will all just be stories to him. Fairytales.’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Aaron said.

Tom’s jaw tightened. ‘No shit.’ He nodded toward the garden. ‘He’ll be down by the water. He loves the water.’

Tom led them all along an overgrown path and down rocky steps to a burbling stream. It would have been the perfect place for a picnic, sunny with dappled shade from the oak trees above.

By the stream, a boy of about fifteen was sitting on a rock, his jeans rolled up, bare feet in the running water. He was painting fish in bold orange strokes that seemed to magically turn into living carp as his brush moved. Like his paintings in the gallery, this one seemed more alive than the world around him.

Tom held up his hand before anyone could speak. He stared at Jamie’s back and swallowed. Frankie didn’t wait. She bounded down the hill into Jamie’s lap, knocking the paintbrush from his hand.

‘Hey!’ Jamie laughed as Frankie barked, delighted, licked his face, bounced away, and barked again. Joan had never heard Frankie so vocal. On the last bounce, Jamie caught her before she could tumble into the water. ‘Who are you?’ he said as Frankie wriggled in his grip, trying to lick his face again. ‘Hello. Who are you?’

Tom stood there, staring at them both. Joan couldn’t imagine how he felt. If she hadn’t known that this boy was the man from the message, she’d never have guessed. The man had been gaunt, every movement slow and pained. This boy was vibrant and full of vitality.

‘You okay?’ she asked Tom.

‘No,’ Tom said. But he made his way down the hill. Frankie barked at his approach. The boy turned. In his shoes, Joan would have jumped half a mile, but the boy’s expression just turned polite. ‘Oh, hello.’ He turned and saw the four of them. ‘Oh wow.’ He pulled his headphones off. ‘Sorry, I had that blasting.’ The headphones were attached to what looked like a slim silver purse. There were little boxes scattered around, all with colourful album covers. Music cassettes, Joan realised. The silver purse was a cassette player.

‘Are you Jamie?’ Tom said. His face was all cheerfulness as he introduced himself and the others. Joan remembered how it had felt when Gran had looked at her like a stranger. Tom showed no sign of what he must have been feeling. ‘Your dad said you might be down here.’

‘Does he need help in the gallery?’ Jamie went to stand, but Tom shook his head.

‘No, actually. We need your help. We heard you’d done some research on the hero stories.’

‘Uh . . .’ Jamie seemed puzzled. Frankie was finally settling down. Jamie stroked her head. ‘You’ve come way too early. I’ve only just started researching them. So . . . Maybe go forward five years or so,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll know everything by then.’

Tom’s throat worked. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But we’d love to chat now too. Because, see. We, uh . . . We’re . . .’ His amazing composure seemed to fail him. ‘Uh, well . . .’

Joan slid in before Tom’s hesitation could get too weird. ‘We’re collectors. We want to buy a painting,’ she said. ‘From the hero series. Your dad said you could tell us about it. Right, Tom?’

Tom shot her a look of mixed thanks and disapproval. ‘Right.’ So Tom lied to everyone except Jamie. Noted.

‘Really? I’ve never sold anything before.’ Jamie looked so happy that Joan felt bad about the lie. Well, she would have felt bad. From the expression on Tom’s face, they were going to have to buy every Jamie Liu painting in the gallery. ‘I really like your ring,’ Jamie added to Tom.

Joan saw it then. Tom turned his head from Jamie’s view, just long enough for the mask to drop. He recovered quickly, turning back with a smile. ‘Thanks. My husband designed it.’

Tom kicked off his shoes and sat, mirroring Jamie’s posture. Tom’s body was usually intimidating, muscles bulging from his shirt. But with Jamie Liu, he looked utterly unthreatening. He’d put himself down on an incline. It made him and Jamie almost the same height.

Joan followed suit, peering at Tom’s ring as she sat. She’d never really noticed it before. It was dark metal with a scoured finish. Now she saw what had caught Jamie’s eye. Etched lines ran over and under the band—images of hounds and phoenixes. They had the same quality of vitality, of life, that Jamie’s paintings did. The same quality as the tattoo on Tom’s arm.

Joan flattened her hands on the ground. The grass felt cool and dry. ‘We’re really interested in the stories behind the paintings,’ she said to Jamie. ‘We were all saying that we didn’t remember the hero stories very well.’

‘Oh, there are loads of them,’ Jamie said, face brightening with enthusiasm for the topic.

‘Can you tell us about them?’ Ruth said.

‘Oh.’ Jamie didn’t seem to know where to start. ‘Well . . . Different families tell different stories. The Patel and Hunt stories are mostly adventures. The hero fights mythical beasts like krakens and giant serpents. That sort of thing. In their stories, he only starts fighting monsters like us later in life.’

‘Huh,’ Joan said. Those were the stories that Gran had told her.

Aren’t these just the Hercules stories? she’d said to Gran once when she was about seven. She’d been snotty-nosed and precocious as a kid. Gran had just waved her hand. Oh, those ancients, she’d said. Always stealing our myths. Now Joan felt her eyes well up unexpectedly. She’d hardly been able to think of Gran since the massacre without remembering her terrible last moments. This was one of the first times she’d remembered Gran just being Gran.

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