Lord Loss

THE CHANGE

Working numbly. A quick trip to the house to fetch new candles. Then I sweep debris—broken chess boards and pieces—out of the way. Methodical. Chasing every last splinter and shard. Stacking them neatly against the walls. Need to keep active. Not dwelling on the game or the fight—or Dervish.

His body rematerialised as reality returned. But only his body—not his mind. He stands by the wall to my left, vacant, unresponsive, eyes glazed over.

Bill-E regains consciousness—and humanity—as I’m coming towards the end of my big cleanup. “Where am I?” he mutters. “What’s happening?” He stands shakily and stares at the bars of the cage. His voice rises fearfully. “What am I doing here? Where’s Dervish? What’s—”

“It’s OK,” I shush him, fetching the key and unlocking the door. “Dervish is over by that wall. There’s no need to be afraid.”

Bill-E stumbles out of the cage and glances nervously at the eerily motionless man in the candlelit shadows.

“What’s the story?” he asks. “The last thing I remember is following Dervish—then nothing.”

I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell Bill-E. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.

“We were right—Dervish was a werewolf. He knocked you out and brought you here. I tracked him and fought with him. He recovered. He was grief-stricken when he realised what he’d done—the change had never affected him this way before. He gave me a book with a spell in it and told me to cast it.”

“What sort of a spell?” Bill-E asks, edging closer to Dervish.

“A calming spell,” I improvise. “He’d been saving it for an emergency. It stops him from turning into a werewolf—but it also robs him of his personality. He’s like a zombie now. He can’t speak or respond. I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way—maybe forever. But if he recovers, he’ll be safe. He won’t change again.”

Bill-E waves a hand in front of his uncle’s eyes—Dervish doesn’t blink. He’s crying when he looks at me. “I didn’t want this!” he sobs. “I wanted to stop him harming people, but not this way!”

“There was no other solution, short of killing him,” I answer quietly. “Dervish had controlled the beast all these years, but it had grown stronger and was close to overwhelming him.”

“And you don’t know how long he’ll be like this?” Bill-E asks.

I shake my head. “A week. A year. A decade. There’s no telling.”

Bill-E smiles weakly. “He must have really loved me to do this to himself,” he notes proudly. “Only a father would act this selflessly.”

I start to tell Bill-E the truth—that Dervish is his uncle, my dad was his dad, I’m his brother— then stop. What would it achieve? If I told him, he’d have to come to terms with his real dad’s death and being an orphan. This way, he believes he’s not alone. I think it’s better to have a zombie for a father than no father at all.

“Yeah,” I nod tiredly. “He was your dad. No doubt about it.” Stepping forward, I take hold of one of Dervish’s hands and press the other into Bill-E’s. “Now let’s get the hell out of here—this place gives me the creeps.”

Days.

Meera recovers the following afternoon. No memory loss or serious injury. I tell her the whole story while Bill-E’s at home with Ma and Pa Spleen. She weeps when she sees Dervish. Cradles his face. Calls his name. Scours his eyes for a trace of who he was.

Nothing.

Weeks.

Lawyers. Social workers. Bankers.

Meera goes through Dervish’s drawers with me. Sets the bureaucratic wheels in motion. My world becomes a flurry of legal papers and professional advice. Concerned officials kept at bay by Dervish’s lawyers. Regular inspections. Visits from doctors and welfare workers. Tests. Under observation. Having to prove myself capable of looking after both myself and my uncle.

Dervish isn’t that difficult to care for. I lay out his clothes each night and dress him as soon as he wakes in the morning. He can go to the toilet himself, once I point him the right way. When I lead him down to breakfast, he sits and eats. After that he does whatever I tell him—rests, or exercises, or walks with me to the Vale to stock up on supplies and prove to everybody that he’s healthy and unharmed. He’s empty, distressingly so, and I have to spend a lot of time on him.

But I can cope.

Months.

Autumn trundles round and I have to start school. Leaving Dervish alone in the house. I’m nervous the first few days, worrying about him, but when I realise he can’t come to harm, I relax and settle down.

I sit next to Bill-E in most classes. (I’ve had to repeat a year, to make up for all the work I missed.) We get on better than ever. Occasionally he’ll make mention of that night in the forest and cellar, but I always change the conversation quickly—I’ve no wish to dwell on such matters.

I enjoy school, and making friends—even homework! This is reality, the normal, dull, everyday world. It’s great to be back.

A year.

I grow ten centimetres. Broaden. I was always large for my age—now I’m positively massive. And still growing! Bill-E calls me the Impeccable Hulk, and refers to the two of us as Little and Large.

He spends a lot of weekends with Dervish and me, watching DVDs and MTV. He says we should hold a party and invite some girls over—says we could act like lords in a castle. Talks of getting a monocle for his lazy left eye and crowning himself King Bill-E the First. I just smile and say nothing when he starts up with fantasy stuff like that. Of course I’m interested in girls, but I’m not ready for dating yet. One step at a time. The demons were scary, but girls—well, girls are really terrifying!

Dervish hasn’t changed. As lifeless as ever, eyes blank, never smiling or frowning, laughing or crying. I talk to him all the time, telling him about school, discussing TV shows, running math problems by him. He never shows any sign that he understands, but it’s comforting to treat him like an ordinary person. And maybe, somewhere far away, in the midst of bloody battle, he hears—and perhaps it helps.

I take him to the barber’s once a month, to have his hair and beard cut. Buy new clothes for him every so often. Experiment with various brands of deodorant. Keep him respectable and in shape, so if he ever does return, he won’t have cause for complaint.

Meera drops by every few weeks or so. Keeps an eye on us. Drives me outside the Vale to hit the bigger stores. I tell her what Dervish said, about not leaving Carcery Vale, but she says it’s OK as long as she’s with me. But we’re careful not to linger, always back a couple of hours before the sun sets—demons are more powerful in this world at night. She usually sleeps over when she comes. Bill-E jokes about it and says we’re having an affair. I wish!

I often dream of Lord Loss and his familiars. I worry about his threat and what he’ll do to me if he ever gets the chance. I block the entrances to the secret cellar with thick planks and dozens of nails. Avoid Dervish’s study as much as possible, for fear I’d find a book about Lord Loss, which might somehow allow him to latch onto me and break through Dervish’s magic defences.

But even more than the demon master, I worry about changing. Every time a full moon comes I sleep nervously—if at all—tossing and turning, imagining the worst, checking under my nails first thing in the morning, examining my teeth and eyes in the mirror.

I’ve memorised the names and numbers of the Lambs—the Grady executioners. If I have to call them one day, I pray that I have the strength to do it.

The morning after a full moon. Fourteen months since my battle with Lord Loss. A crisp, sun-crowned morning. Stretching. Yawning. Thinking about school. Also about a girl—Reni Gossel. I like Reni. Very cute. And she’s been giving me the sort of looks which make me think she maybe thinks I’m cute too. Wondering if it’s time to hold that party Bill-E’s been pressing for.

My cheeks feel sticky. Curious, I rub a few fingers over them. They come away wet—and red!

My head flares. Heart pounds. Stomach clenches. Thoughts of school and Reni forgotten. I fall out of bed. Desperately check under my nails—dirty with earth and blood. Hairs stuck to my hands and around my mouth.

Moaning. Slapping off the hairs.

I reel out of the room and down the stairs, almost falling and breaking my neck. Head spinning. Lights exploding within my brain. Vomit rising in my throat. Telephone numbers flash across my eyes. And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.

Into the kitchen. Dervish is sitting at the table, slowly spooning cornflakes into his mouth. I turn in circles, wringing my hands, tearing at my hair. My eyes fix on the telephone hanging from the wall. I stop panicking. Calm falls on me like a sudden cold rainfall. I know what I must do. Best to do it now, as soon as possible, before I lose my nerve. Call the executioners. Give myself over to the Lambs. Arrange for others to take care of Dervish. Bid this world farewell.

I start towards the phone, resigned to my fate.

A solemn voice behind me—“Grubbs.”

I turn slowly, reluctantly, for some reason expecting to see Lord Loss. But there’s only Dervish. He’s holding up a tin of red paint, a small pot of earth, and a tatty woollen scarf which has been ripped into hairy fragments.

“The look on your face!” my uncle says.

And grins.