Winner of the Carnegie Medal
Winner of the Carnegie Medal
To contact Tim please email info@timbowler.co.uk
You can also contact Tim via his agent: Christabel McKinley of David Higham Associates Ltd., 7th Floor, Waverley House, 7-12 Noel Street, London W1F 8GQ. The telephone number is 020 7434 5900.
Four of Tim’s novels have been included in OUP’s Rollercoasters series. The Rollercoasters website shows the exciting range of class readers for schools written by award-winning writers with varied themes, challenging subject matter and engaging plots. Each book has a wide range of supporting materials including a Reading Guide which provides essential background material for students and downloadable teacher’s support material. Click on the image below for further information about the Rollercoasters.
Tim has worked many times over the years with The British Council in countries such as Croatia, Kazakhstan, Denmark and others, including several trips to Korea. In 2013 Tim visited Korea again and delivered several lectures: at the UK-Korea Children’s and YA Literature Conference, at Back-hyun Middle School, at the UK-Korea Literature Festival, at the Wow Book Festival, and at the Paju Booksori UK-Lit Day Book Concert. In a wide-ranging interview for Naver, Korea: ‘Bookshelf of Intellectuals’, in this video Tim talks about his books, how he first started writing, the authors who influenced him as a young writer, his favourite books, and finally the five books he would take with him if marooned on a desert island.
Tim’s books are very popular in South Korea. He has visited the country several times and on his trip in 2013 he made a special request to meet Korean teenagers face to face to talk about books and writing. This video shows him at Back-hyun Middle School. Tim was also interviewed by Arirang TV, a global, English-language television network based in Seoul, South Korea.
Visits to schools are important for Tim as an author of books for the young. He has carried out many, both in the United Kingdom and abroad. This video shows him joining pupils at Ivybridge Community College in Devon. It shows how the school has incorporated Tim’s books into lessons and prepared for the visit. Tim was asked to talk about his work and to encourage creativity in their class.
Tim has been invited to many Literary Festivals including the Edinburgh International Book Festival, the Cheltenham Literature Festival and Bath Children’s Literature Festival. In this video Tim is at the Hay Festival where he talks about how the sea inspired his novel Apocalypse.
The British Council operates a reader development programme in many countries. The aim of this programme is to encourage more people in these countries to read, to highlight modern British culture and to provide training for external partners in sustainable reader development approaches. The British Council helped to set up eight reading groups in schools and universities at Almaty in Kazakhstan . In April 2005 the reading groups held a conference in Almaty. Tim met the reading groups and delivered a number of workshops. This video is a record of Tim’s visit to Almaty.
| Boekenwelp Award (Belgium) | Midget |
| New York Library Book of the Teen Age (US) | Midget |
| Carnegie Medal | River Boy |
| Angus Book Award | River Boy |
| The Andersen Prize | River Boy |
| Angus Book Award | Shadows |
| Lancashire County Library Children’s Book of the Year | Shadows |
| South Lanarkshire Book Award | Storm Catchers |
| Stockport Schools Book Award | Storm Catchers |
| Highland Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| Hull Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| Redbridge Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| Stockport Schools Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| South Lanarkshire Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| Southern Schools Book Award | Frozen Fire |
| Somerset Teenage Fiction Award | Blade |
‘Tim is a great tutor. He is clearly passionate and cares about his work and genuinely wants to help you grow and improve in your writing. He is very inspirational and proactive in his teaching methods. Highly recommended tutor.’
Josh
‘Exceptional support. Our son thoroughly enjoyed his session with Tim. It was the perfect balance between improving writing skills and carefully guided creative writing. Thank you Tim!’
Nia
‘Tim is THE BEST tutor I’ve ever had in my whole entire life! He is the most understanding, kind, dedicated, and encouraging mentor I’ve had a chance to work with, as he tailors his approach to meet the individual needs of his students. His guidance was invaluable in helping me to complete a story for my graduate school application, and his line-edits pushed my writing in a more impactful direction. Although English is not my native language, Tim was patiently working with me despite the fact that my prose was full of mistakes. I wholeheartedly recommend Tim as he embodies the qualities of an outstanding teacher and mentor. It was a great honor for me to work with such a professional and I am truly grateful for the opportunity to benefit from his expertise and support as a young writer! Thank you so much, Tim!’
Maria
‘I turned to Tim because I’m writing the first draft of my first novel. As if this isn’t difficult enough, I’m also writing it in English, which is not my native language.
I’ve had the privilege of being tutored by Tim for three months now, and I look forward to each session like a child to Christmas. He is an exceptional tutor as well as a kind and thoughtful person. Although he is a renowned author with an enormous amount of expertise, he never makes me feel overwhelmed or belittled.
One of the things I love about our sessions is how there is a perfect balance between support and constructive feedback. More than any teacher I’ve known, he understands the importance of building the confidence I need to come to my desk and write. Whenever we discuss my work, he manages to both highlight its strengths and show me what I need to work on. This way, I’m learning to improve my work without throwing out the baby with the bath water. I’m already much better at cleaning up after myself, so to speak.
For me, Tim’s belief in my abilities has been transformative. I have more confidence in the process, and I’ve let go of the need to achieve perfection right away. This way I have produced more original writing during the past three months than in the entire past year.
Tim provides unwavering support. Several times now, he has very kindly answered a question of mine in between lessons. This not only prevents me from getting stuck, but combined with his wonderful lessons it also alleviates the lonely and daunting process of writing and transforms it into one of joy and excitement.
I cannot recommend Tim highly enough. His passion for writing, extensive knowledge and genuine care for his students make him an invaluable mentor. If you’re seeking someone who will inspire you and guide you towards your writing goals while nurturing your self-esteem, then look no further.’
Marije
‘Tim has been patient, kind and inspiring. My son would leap out of bed to get to class with enthusiasm and excitement! That’s a real testament to Tim’s quality as a tutor. Great tutor and, even more importantly, a great guy.’
Luke
‘Tim is an excellent tutor. His feedback is precise and straight to the point. His turnaround is very quick. I appreciated his way of tutoring, proposing and discussing changes rather than imposing them. He makes sure your writing always expresses your voice. Top-notch and absolutely recommended. Thank you, Tim.’
Hal
‘Tim is an excellent and passionate English Tutor. I’m just starting to write stories for children. I’ve had my first free trial with Tim and gained many valuable tips. He gives great suggestions that polish my writing style. I appreciate that I learnt more than expected in 1 hour! I would recommend Tim to anyone who is seeking to develop their writing skills.’
Dana
‘Tim is a fantastic teacher with unlimited patience, kindness, and experience. I’ve learned a great deal in just one session, and now I’m a weekly regular student. In just a short amount of time I’ve seen my prose get clearer and tighter, thanks to his tips and feedback. If that was reason alone, I’d highly recommend him. But Tim is more than a great teacher, he’s essentially a great coach & mentor wrapped into one. He is open and shares about his own struggles from past experiences when helpful. He cheers me on when I feel stuck in a rut or feel overwhelmed by my project. He adapts to what I need, when I need a different approach – unlike any teacher I’ve had in the past. If you’re looking for someone to help reach the finish line of your project or simply to exchange with a published author with a wealth of experience to share, Tim is the one.’
Matthew
‘Tim’s expertise has been invaluable in my first attempt at authorship. I look forward to another round of feedback in the future.’
Adam
‘Perfect! Tim is exceeding my expectations. He adapts the lesson to my needs and in a very kind way he corrects me along the way. I’m having lessons almost every day and I couldn’t be happier.’
Teresa
‘Patient, pleasant, encouraging – just what the doctor ordered for my son to develop his confidence in English skills! Thank you, Tim.’
Ambar
‘Tim’s passion for helping others achieve their goals shines through in his lessons. He’s warm, knowledgeable and student-focused. I’ll be booking more sessions with Tim, that’s for sure!’
Paul
‘Tim gave me very useful feedback on my novel opening. He has great attention to detail and is such an experienced author that he can see possibilities and make suggestions – but he was very clear that it’s my work. It’s great to be able to talk things through and explore ideas. It’s different from receiving written feedback in that way – more of a dialogue. It was fascinating to get his take on my characters, and understand what he’d seen in my story. An hour with a Carnegie winner is worth so much! Thank you, Tim.’
Tricia
‘Tim was delightful to work with. We went line-by-line through my writing sample from my middle grade novel. He pointed out things that I might want to consider changing and also things that he thought worked well. It was a very balanced and detailed critique. I really appreciated Tim’s insights and perspective on both the technical aspects of my writing but also on the story, characters, and ideas I have for it. He was always positive and supportive while still giving me a very considered and useful critique of my work. I’ll definitely be doing another session with him in the near future, and I’d recommend him highly as a tutor.’
Colleen
‘My son is really enjoying Tim’s lessons . He is very knowledgeable and experienced. My son is preparing for eleven plus exams with him and he is already making progress . I highly recommend Tim to anyone who is looking for an English tutor.’
Deniz
‘Tim is an icon, he is a legend, and he is the moment.’
Basak
‘Tim was thorough in his feedback. he encouraged me to schedule my writing in a way that suits my work and home life. He was able to see the strengths in my work and has really helped me to build on them. He also pointed out areas of my work that could be tweaked. I really like Tim’s approach and look forward to working with him.’
Helen
‘I was unsure what to expect of an on-line tutorial and felt more than a little daunted by Tim’s knowledge, experience and award-winning oeuvre. However, Tim immediately put me at ease and was positive and insightful as we discussed the writing samples I had sent to him. I felt that he really did care about helping me to become a better writer and had grasped not only my motivation but also my anxieties and concerns. I am delighted to be able to book a block of mentoring sessions with Tim as I begin work on a creative writing project. It’s so exciting to have this opportunity, not to mention the boost to my confidence after only a single session. Thank you, Tim, for listening and hearing.’
Elizabeth
‘Very clear. Had read all my work carefully and had a mix of very helpful comments ranging from detailed advice to broad overview.’
Andy
‘I have known Tim for many years through various public and school library connections and he has always been caring, kind, attentive and full of sage advice for budding writers in his audience. A man who will spend time and effort on behalf of his students.’
Tricia
‘Tim has been a hugely inspirational writing mentor to me, and also someone I trust when it comes to advice on the technicalities of writing – from the nuts and bolts of grammar to the larger considerations of novel construction. He is perceptive, positive, gentle and encouraging. Tim has had a long and glittering career in the world of YA fiction, and won the Carnegie medal. Anyone working with Tim will be privileged to have access to that treasure trove of personal experience.’
Rosemary
‘Tim is an immensely empathetic, kind and supportive tutor and mentor. I am a writer who has tutored and taught for many years myself, and I sought out Tim’s advice about developing my writing career in 2021. He was thoughtful, kind, direct and encouraging – his style of mentoring and support is open, honest and attentive. I know that as a writer of Young Adult and children’s fiction, he has incredible skill in connecting with young people – but also with everyone! As well as being an immensely experienced and highly successful writer, Tim is also a wonderful person – he embodies the qualities of kindness and compassion that you would most want to seek out in a trusted mentor and tutor. If you have any hesitation about receiving tutoring from him, my recommendation is to dive right in.’
Jenny
‘I am a children’s author, and Tim approached the writing group I belong to, offering help and tuition via Zoom. At the time I was feeling my way into a new genre, YA. As Tim is an experienced writer who writes YA books, I felt he might be able to give me some guidance on a few key areas, such as what sort of stories agents and publishers are looking for, acceptability of swear words etc. The session lasted 20 minutes and covered all my queries and more. He was knowledgeable, friendly and helpful, and I felt it was money well spent.’
Tessa
‘Tim is a prize winning author for young adults with extensive experience of facilitating exceptional creative writing sessions in schools and in the community. In 2011, I helped coordinate a Creative Partnership project in the library at Southend Boys Grammar School. As he was already one of the top three most requested authors in the library, we asked Tim if he would be able to become a Writer in Residence as part of the project. Tim agreed and was generous enough to spend a whole week working with Year 7 and Year 8, as well as fitting in sessions with aspiring writers in Year 11 and 12. Through the conversations I had with teachers and young people as part of the project evaluation, it is clear that his visit was hugely successful and inspiring for both staff and pupils. Tim’s writing workshops and surgeries were extremely popular and highly valued. Despite working enormously hard throughout his residency, Tim was indefatigably diligent and kind to the end. As a writing tutor, you can do no better than Tim! Justin Coe (Writer and former Creative Agent for Creative Partnerships).’
Justin
‘The publication of a new novel by Tim Bowler was always a real event in the world of children’s books. Skilled in every aspect of the craft, he offered something entirely fresh to his readers with each new book. Tim’s events in schools and at literary festivals were always rich with guidance and encouragement, and the joy he found in writing, so he makes the ideal person to share his huge experience and talent as an award-winning writer for young people.’
Lindsey
‘Tim really fired the imaginations of our pupils when he visited our school to give a talk and run writing workshops. He was inspiring and very entertaining, pitching it absolutely perfectly for them and they loved it. He also shared some very useful tips with me, which encouraged me to keep writing. Highly recommended for sure!’
Hemant
‘I have known Tim for many years as a friend and as a writer, and I admire him greatly. I have had the pleasure of working alongside Tim in workshops and he is inspirational. Tim is so knowledgeable and shares that knowledge in a thoughtful and considered way. He is an engaging tutor that can’t help but catch the imagination of anyone in the room. He works effectively with groups and on a one-to-one basis. Taking the time to explore creativity and inspiration through his own books at times, which are brilliant, it has to be said. I highly recommend Tim. He is a superb tutor.’
Vanessa
‘Tim’s wonderful books and literary awards speak for themselves, and I’ve had the good fortune to watch his author events where he delights and inspires readers of all ages. In addition, he’s a friendly and knowledgeable fellow with decades of experience!’
Dan
‘I’ve known Tim for many years now – since the early ’90’s, when he, myself and David Almond won the Carnegie within a few years of one another. We’ve been friends ever since. It’s difficult to find a bad word about Tim. He’s the nicest of men, and at the same time totally honest; he’s a hard and dedicated worker, without giving up an ounce of fun in his own life; he has all the empathy and human understanding you’d expect in a novelist without compromising his own points of view. I can vouch, from our many conversations on the subject, for his insight and understanding into the art and craft of writing. Oh – and finally, he is in his own right a very fine writer indeed. I can recommend him highly to anyone as a first rate tutor.’
Melvin
‘I’ve known Tim for many years as a brilliantly successful writer with a passion for his craft and art. I have taught creative writing with him and know he brings his huge enthusiasm, generosity and knowledge to his teaching and has a real ability to bring out the very best in his students.’
Celia
‘I have known Tim for many years – he is one of the great children’s authors in the UK, a fantastic presenter of his work and a knowledgeable, wise and experienced tutor. I thoroughly recommend his work.’
Andrew
‘I have known Tim for many years in a professional capacity as a writer and teacher of creative writing. I recommend Tim highly as a tutor of writing for people of all ages. He has written many beautiful books for young people, and has been awarded many prizes including the prestigious Carnegie medal. Tim has inspired many young people and adults though his talks and workshops. He is wise, knowledgeable, encouraging, supportive and friendly. An excellent tutor.’
Julia
‘I’ve known Tim Bowler for many years, ever since he won The Carnegie Medal, the most important prize for children’s authors in the UK. He is an outstanding writer with an international reputation. He is also a brilliant and highly respected tutor. I’ve seen him work with adults and children of all ages. He is inspirational, intelligent, funny, energetic, and
deeply serious. He is a man of true integrity. He is a born teacher. He really does believe in the importance of passing on his knowledge and skills.’
David
‘Tim is a very experienced writer, with an amazing back catalogue of books. He’s a very kind and considerate teacher and I can’t recommend him enough.’
Marcus
‘I have witnessed Tim engage with young people for nearly twenty years, and have been struck by how well he gets on with them, both in school surroundings and at literary events. Using humour, he is clearly very knowledgeable about writing, caring about the quality of the written word. Friendly, but firm, and very inspirational.’
Ann
‘I have known Tim for many years and he is the nicest, most patient person I know. He has a wonderful way of explaining things in clear terms without once talking down to one, and is unflappable even in the face of constant questions. I have seen him hold groups of recalcitrant teenagers spellbound, with his interesting and never condescending delivery. I could think of no person better equipped to impart knowledge and assist learners whilst encouraging them to reach their own full potential.’
Bev
‘Tim is a caring, thorough, very talented teacher and writer. I was involved with the International School of Lausanne’s visiting writer programme which brought Tim to Switzerland to spend a week with our students, from primary school through high school, as well as some parents. Across the board, he was received as a wonderful member of our community, encouraging children and adults alike to engage with literature in exciting new ways. I have the highest respect for him as a writer and teacher.’
Nancy
‘I am Tim’s Norwegian publisher and have worked with Tim for many years. Tim is a well-known author for young readers and an inspiring communicator about writing. I highly recommend him as a tutor.’
Eva C
‘I have worked with Tim on several occasions and can thoroughly recommend him as a tutor for young people and adults. As well as being highly accomplished and experienced, he is generous with his support and encouragement. Students working with Tim can expect insightful, practical and friendly advice from an established writer whose work is much admired by others in his profession and by countless readers.’
Linda
‘I had the pleasure of working with Tim during the stage adaptation of his incredible novel, Starseeker. During this time we worked with hundreds of young people from dozens of schools, in and around the east midlands. To put it concisely, Tim‘s ability to engage and excite young people with respect to the power of their imaginations is phenomenal. I was directly involved in several of Tim’s workshops and witnessed first-hand just how brilliant he is at connecting to and with individuals across generations, but in particularly with children and young people. An inspiration to work with.’
Alex
‘I’ve known Tim as a friend and colleague for many years. We are both published authors in the same field. Tim is also a generous and inspiring teacher, sharing his knowledge with warmth and humour. I have no hesitation in recommending him highly as an English language or creative writing tutor.’
Nicola
‘I first met Tim when I was mid-career change and moving into secondary school librarianship. My future boss gave me a set of books to read. Tim’s Starseeker was one of them and it has stayed with me ever since. The passion and pace in his writing gripped me and continues to grip students. I know that Tim’s passion for and wealth of creative writing and publishing experience needs to be shared with others to help them reach their creative writing potential.’
Sue
‘Tim is one of the most inspirational tutors/mentors you could hope to work with and you’ll be lucky if he can slot you in. A brilliant, award-winning children’s author and an instinctive communicator, I’ve seen Tim hold a whole hall spellbound and one-to-one he is very insightful, encouraging and motivating, while not afraid to offer a little tough love where it’s needed. As a fellow author I’ve seen Tim in action, loved his work, and benefited from the still small voice of calm he has readily at his command.’
Ali
‘I have known Tim for more than twenty years and, as a librarian and manager of reading projects, I have worked with him many times and seen him talking about writing, and also running workshops with young people, and with teachers and librarians. His sessions are always absorbing, practical and inspiring. He is a fine teacher, and a fine writer, a winner of the Carnegie Medal – and always a joy to work with.’
Patricia
‘Tim is an incredible author. He has won at least one Carnegie award (and probably many more top notch awards knowing Tim). But do not be intimidated! Tim is kind, discerning and works with people in a way that is very positive and incredibly helpful. During tutorials with Tim you can expect him to be reliable, well prepared and to have read your work thoroughly. You will receive clear, yet succinct, explanations of why something may need honing and a suggested change which you can choose to adopt or not. His knowledge of grammar is staggering and beyond usual excellence. He is precise and thorough yet leaves his students feeling encouraged and inspired. I am delighted to be able to whole heartedly recommend Tim. If you’re serious about taking your written work to the highest standard then Tim is definitely the tutor for you.’
Miranda
I started writing when I was five and I was bitten by the bug from the first sentence. I wrote stories, poems, plays, comics, all kinds of stuff. I wrote all through my childhood, teen and university days and on into adulthood, and it has been a willing addiction ever since. But I also realized by the end of my school years that I was attracted to teaching as well. I had received private tuition in Maths, German and Latin and I think, looking back, that there was something in the kindness, patience and integrity of those three tutors that made me feel I wanted to do something similar when I was older.
Writing is an active discipline. You have to practise it. It’s helpful to read about writing and study writing techniques and find out what other writers say about it, but ultimately you learn about writing by doing it. It’s something you only improve in by practising it again and again and noting what works and what doesn’t. A writing tutor can help greatly here as a guide along the way, and it’s my privilege to be such a tutor, but ultimately the work is done by the student learning and growing by putting down words and trying to make them sing. Writing is not a science or a body of knowledge with tables, declensions, and things to memorise. Yes, there are rules of spelling, grammar and punctuation, and these are very important, but the writing itself, both the process and the product, is mysterious. It’s also, in my opinion, magical. When we find the right words, we give physical form to our thoughts and feelings. We give them life, make them visible, and when we write well, we express who and what we are, and I think that’s wonderful.
Two stand out in my mind. The first was a professor from my university days. He was a literature tutor, a lovely generous-hearted man, highly respected in his field, and I loved having one-to-one tutorials with him. He would go over my essays in detail and point out the importance of honing language, making every word count. I’ll never forget how encouraging he was. The second person who stands out was a writer I met back in the 1980s when I was a young unpublished author struggling to finish my first novel. He was in his sixties and he had had a great deal of success writing radio plays but what interested me most about him was that he offered one-to-one tuition to keen writers like myself. This was long before the days of Internet and webcams and his arrangement was that students would post a chapter of their work to him, he would study it, then speak his thoughts aloud into an old-fashioned audio cassette, and post it back to the student in a jiffy bag. I used to love receiving that jiffy bag! He was a good mentor at a time when I needed one and although I only worked with him for a year or so, he was a huge help and I’ll always be grateful to him. Not only that but I remember thinking at the time that if I ever got anywhere in writing myself, I’d like to offer a similar tutoring service to aspiring writers later in my life, if I felt I could be of any help.
Empathy, patience, humility, a love of the subject and of helping others to achieve their goals. Tutoring in writing is less about giving instruction or imparting information and more about advising, encouraging and helping the student to develop abilities that he or she already possesses. ‘Educate’ literally means to ‘bring out’ and my task is to do just that: bring out what already exists in the student but needs improving. Another word that is often used for what I do is ‘mentoring’ and in some ways that is a more accurate description of my role. I am a writing mentor as well as a writing tutor. At the same time, I never forget that I am also a student of writing myself with much to learn, and this will always be the case. No one ever completes the process of learning to write better. It is a lifelong journey and just as I hope my students are helped and inspired by me, I can say, hand on heart, that I in turn am helped and inspired by them. Every person I work with has a unique writing voice with the potential to express beautiful things and helping that person develop that voice is a major reason why I love what I do.
I remember many years ago struggling to get my head round a novel I was trying to write. I had a deadline with the publisher and I didn’t think I was going to meet it. I’d written several drafts of the novel and hated all of them. I took some time away from the book and tried to work out what I wanted to say. I just didn’t know. My head was crammed with ideas I’d thought were clever and interesting, if I could just fit them all together, but I was floundering and wary of going back to my writing desk. Then one day, while browsing in a book of verse, I happened to see some words by the sixteenth-century poet Sir Philip Sidney: ‘Look in thy heart and write’; and something in me clicked into place. I realised that I had been trying to write a story that my mind was impressed by but my ‘heart’ didn’t like. I had given the intellect supreme power over the project when all the time I knew instinctively what I really wanted to write, and it wasn’t the story I had been labouring over. I found this a huge lesson in trusting my instincts, in having faith in the intuitional powers we all possess and would do well to be guided by, certainly in a creative activity like writing, and it helped me go back to work and eventually finish my novel.
Self-doubt is common among many writers I know, including some very successful ones, and I have felt it myself on a number of occasions. The writing life is not always a smooth one. Sometimes the writing goes well and those days are great. The words are flowing, they read well, and you feel good. But on other days the words seem to fight you, or the ideas do, or both, and if this continues over a period of time, you can start to doubt yourself. I’ve learned two things from this. Firstly, that if you let self-doubt beat you and stop writing, then your work dies on the spot, and I think that’s a shame; but secondly, I’ve learned that self-doubt can actually help you if you let it. It can prod you, sting your pride, force you to fight back. It can bring out reserves of strength and determination and even, yes, better writing than you could have dreamed of. But you have to push yourself through it. However bad you feel, you have to make yourself write another page. If that’s no good, write another. Still no good? Write another. Keep writing another page. Sooner or later, your writing will get back on track, so long as you refuse to give up.
Many years ago I was asked in a job interview for a teaching post whether I taught because I love my subject or because I love working with students. My answer was, and still is, both, and in my view they have to be equal if you’re going to be an effective tutor. You must have a passion for your subject, in my case writing, and an equal passion for working with the students who come to you for help. I have always had that equal passion and I have no preference either when it comes to the students I work with. I get the same buzz whether I’m tutoring a school pupil or a university student working towards an exam, or a business executive honing a sales pitch, or a foreign national wanting to improve English writing skills, or an author writing a novel. Tutoring for me is about combining a passion for teaching with a passion for writing and I feel very lucky to be able to do that.
I offer the following editorial help to writers:
The copy and line editing service is a close analysis of the text in question. Just to clarify: a copy edit is a thorough check of grammar, punctuation, spelling, accuracy, textual details etc. whereas a line edit focuses on style and use of language. I offer both of the above as one service. I use Markup so that my suggestions are easy for the author to read. I stress the word ‘suggestions’. I do not write anyone else’s work for them. I will correct errors, recommend changes, and add comments which I hope the author will find helpful, but I do not attempt to take over the writing. For the copy and line editing service I charge by the hour.
The general manuscript critique is exactly what it says. I do not focus on e.g. grammar or punctuation errors as in a copy edit or make suggestions on sentence style and choice of words as in a line edit. Instead, I give my thoughts on what I believe are the strengths and weaknesses of the manuscript as a whole, focusing on characterisation, plot, pace, clarity, dialogue, settings, theme, credibility, reasoning (if non-fiction) and how well (or poorly) I feel the written language is used, plus any other things I consider might be helpful to the author. For general manuscript critiques I charge a reading fee based on the word count of the document plus the cost of a one-hour Zoom consultation with the author. In this consultation we analyse the issues I have mentioned above and afterwards I provide the author with key written notes covering the points we have discussed.
For further information, please email me at info@timbowler.co.uk.
All good wishes.
TIM BOWLER
I offer my services worldwide to writers of all backgrounds, all levels, and all ages from school children to senior citizens and my aim, quite simply, is to help them become better writers. Every writer’s vision is unique and what I seek to do in my tutorials is help each student develop his or her writing voice into the powerful and precious thing it deserves to be.
Whether it’s a school pupil working on a story or class assignment, a student wrestling with a dissertation, a business executive honing a company brochure, a foreign national seeking to improve English writing skills, or a novelist fighting to breathe life into a fictional world, the principles of good writing remain the same. All writers must master the core skills of creative invention and critical acuity, together with the foundational elements of spelling, punctuation, paragraphing, grammar and style.
I can help with all of these and I am happy to adapt to different requirements. Some students just want one or two lessons to address a writing issue they would like help with; others are looking for multiple lessons but only as and when they need them; still others are looking to commit to a block of lessons at e.g. daily, weekly or fortnightly intervals. Some are not looking for face-to-face lessons at all but for written guidance or editorial help. All of the above are welcome.
I should make clear at this point that I am not a supporter of Artificial Intelligence apps for writing or editing. AI has its uses in many areas of life but in the world of writing I believe it is a serious impediment to an individual’s potential growth as a writer. I also believe it goes against everything that is sacred about human creativity.
If you are someone who is ethically comfortable using AI for writing and editing, and who finds it helpful, I sincerely wish you well but please apply elsewhere. I am not the right person for you. If, however, you are someone whose every sentence is the product of your own thought and inspiration, and who is willing to work hard over time to craft your writing voice from the living words that dance inside you, then I will be delighted to help you in any way I can.
Basically, I offer three services: 1. Zoom Tutorials, 2. Distance Learning, 3. Editorial Assistance.
The basic Zoom tutorial lasts one hour. The content of each session will vary, depending on the needs of the student, but generally speaking the main focus of the lesson is a close analysis of a piece of the student’s work which he or she will have emailed me no later than two days before the lesson. The extract can be from an existing work in progress, e.g. a school exercise, story, poem, article, dissertation, memoir, sales pitch, novel, or it can be from a task that I have set the student beforehand by agreement. Sometimes I will set the student a writing task or tasks to do during the lesson itself, if that is appropriate to what we are trying to achieve.
At no point do I write any of the student’s work myself. The student is the author and final arbiter of everything that is written. My role is to advise and encourage and, in addition to our analysis of the written work, I use each lesson to mentor the student, suggest ways to overcome areas of weakness, and address any queries or concerns the student may have.
My approach is friendly and supportive at all times. As with most creative endeavours, writing is an activity where it’s easy to experience self-doubt. The empty page or screen can be intimidating. So can page after page of writing that just isn’t working. I will point out errors where I see them but my focus is always on the strengths and potentialities which every writer possesses and can build on. I want my students to believe in their ability and strive with confidence to achieve their writing ambitions.
I tutor Mondays to Fridays from 09.00 to 13.00 and from 14.00 to 18.00. My last tutorial of the day starts at 17.00. Please note that I am based in England so these times are in the British/UK time zone. If you are in another time zone, you will need to make an adjustment. I do not tutor in the evenings or at weekends.
With the distance learning package I offer pretty much the same things as in the Zoom tutorials but without the Zoom. With distance learning the tuition and mentoring are carried out in writing. Distance learning is especially helpful for students who are not comfortable with face-to-face video calls and who prefer tuition by correspondence. It is also suitable for students who are unable to find a time in their schedule for Zoom lessons that match my own availability.
The process is very simple. I set the student a task or tasks, tailored to his or her specific needs (unless he/she has requested my help with an existing work in progress). The student does the work and sends it to me by the agreed date. I mark it and send my written corrections, comments, advice and encouragement back to the student. The student (or parent if it’s a school pupil) pays me for the time I have taken preparing the task, marking it and sending it back.
Most students have a weekly homework schedule but some prefer a fortnightly or monthly arrangement. I am happy to fit round all of the above. I appreciate that each student has different needs, plus there are cost factors, so my aim is simply to help in any way I can. All I ask of each student is that he or she works willingly and hard.
Please note that for students of school age seeking my help for either Zoom tutorials or distance learning, the approach to me must be made by a parent or legal guardian.
For further information on the above, please email me at info@timbowler.co.uk.
For information on my editorial services, please click on Editorial Services .
There’s no other way to put this: I’ve had it up to here. If it’s not Dad whipping off his belt, it’s Mum snapping at me like she never used to, or the bullyboys hunting me at school, or the headmaster asking me if I’ve got any friends when he bloody knows I haven’t. I’ve even had the landlord saying Zinny’s not a proper name for a fifteen-year-old boy and how come my parents can buy me new running shoes when they never pay the rent on time? And now there’s a guy in the street watching my window.
Don’t know who he is, just know he looks normal and feels wrong. I mean, what’s he doing down the slug end of the road anyway? Just dingy old houses. What’s to look at? I keep to the side of the window and go on peeking round the curtain. Big guy, about thirty, neat hair, clean shaven. Not short of money with a flash coat like that. I caught sight of him a few minutes ago walking down the opposite pavement.
Nothing wrong with that. Not everyone thinks Abbot Street’s a cesspit. Some people even live here. But down this end? He’s gone past the shops and most of the other houses and now he’s stopped, and he’s still staring up at my window. Doesn’t look like someone the school’s sent to find me. He’s heading for the front door. I step back from the window. There’s a knock down below.
‘We’ve got a bell,’ I murmur.
It rings, rings again, then silence falls: just the sound of traffic from the main road, then that seems to fade, and all I hear is a blackbird chirping up on the roof. Feels strange for a few seconds, like the city’s turned into a country meadow. Not that I’ve ever been in one. The bell rings again.
I sit on the bed and wait. He’s got to give up soon. I want to go back to the window and check round the curtain again, but I don’t dare. I’ve got a feeling he might look up and catch me. I think of Mum and Dad. Maybe one of them knows him. I hope not. Don’t know why. Still the silence. I picture the country meadow again. I often do this. When I can’t take the city any more, I think of the nature pictures in that book I’ve got.
Sound of footsteps outside, moving back from the door. I’m guessing he’s looking up at the window again. Then another sound, and this time I relax. He’s walking away, not up the road but past the house towards the railway bridge. I jump back to the window and check round the curtains. But I’m too late. There’s no sign of him.
He must have moved dead fast. I slip to the other side of the window to give me a better angle. Still no sign, just the street and the bridge and a train clunking over it towards the city centre. I sit back on the bed again and try to think. There’s nothing says this guy’s trouble, nothing more than my instinct, and that could be wrong. I’m always jumpy when I bunk off school. Then I hear the sound at the back door.
I stiffen. All’s quiet again, and for a moment I think I’ve imagined it, but then it comes back, clear as the thumping of my heart: a scrape, a rattle, another scrape. Someone’s trying to pick the lock. A click as it surrenders and the door opens with a creak. I look quickly round. No time to get down the stairs and out the front door, no point running into Mum and Dad’s room, or into the bathroom. He’ll hear me moving and the only advantage I’ve got is him not knowing I’m in the house.
If that’s true. Best to stay here anyway and hide under the bed. He might just miss me. There’s nothing to steal in my room. He’ll see that at a glance. He’ll see it everywhere else too. Everything about this house’ll tell him how poor we are, so with any luck he won’t hang around. He’s through the kitchen now and into the front room. I can hear him moving about. I kneel down, soft as I can, and check under the bed. Games kit still stuffed under there from last week, plus my old tatty cushion and my running shoes. I wait, listening.
It’s gone quiet downstairs and I’m terrified he’s heard me, but then the sounds start again. He’ll pulling open the drawers of the old cabinet. I squeeze under the bed, ease myself towards the middle. Smells musty and I’m worried I’m going to sneeze. I’ve started trembling too. The unwashed kit’s close to my face and it stinks. I pull some of it out of the bag and stuff it down the other side of my body with the cushion.
Don’t know why I’m bothering. If he looks under the bed, he’ll see me, with or without this stuff. I curl up, try to make myself small. Sound of footsteps on the stairs. I try to stop trembling, but I can’t. He stops outside my door, like he’s thinking which room to try first – then he heads for Mum and Dad’s. Takes his time in there but I can hear what he’s doing.
He’s opening all the drawers, tipping stuff out, poking through, and now he’s pulling back the wardrobe and the old chest, like he wants to look behind them; then I catch another sound. Can’t work it out straightaway, then I get it. He’s dragging back the bed, pulling up the carpet and the floorboards. That’s when I move, because he’ll be in here next, doing the same thing, and I’ve only got one chance to run.
I crawl out and stand up, praying he hasn’t heard me, but it’s no good. All the sounds have stopped in Mum and Dad’s room. I brace myself. He’s listening. He’s got to be. He’s heard something – me obviously – and any moment now he’s going to rush in and see me. But instead he runs down the stairs and out the back door. A crash of the gate and he’s off down the alley, his steps clattering away into silence. Then I hear the key in the front door.
And Mum’s voice.
‘Hello?’ she calls.I don’t answer. There’s something else wrong now and I don’t mean me being here. I mean Mum being here. It’s two in the afternoon. She’s supposed to be cleaning offices till six. So she said. She calls out again.
‘Hello?’
Then a man’s voice.
‘Take it easy, Dana. There’s nobody here.’
I don’t recognise the speaker. Don’t like him either, now I’ve guessed what he’s come for. It’s gone quiet downstairs and I know why. I want to run down and break them up, but I know I’ve got to keep out of sight. I slip under the bed again and wait for the shout. Nothing for ages. Jesus, they must be glued together. Then footsteps heading for the front room, and Mum’s voice.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Back door’s open,’ says the man. ‘Could mean they’ve gone.’
‘Or they didn’t close it on their way in,’ says Mum.
They mutter something I don’t hear, then there’s more footsteps, this time on the stairs. They’re both coming up. I curl up under the bed and peer towards the door. Two pairs of feet stop on the threshold.
‘Zinny’s room doesn’t look any different,’ says Mum.
I study Romeo’s shoes. They’re not smart like the ones the other guy was wearing. They’re cheap shit trying to be posh. I feel a sudden urge to crawl out and gob in the man’s face. But he’s moved away now and Mum’s gone with him. I wait again.
‘Christ!’ says Mum.
They’ve seen the main bedroom.
‘I’m phoning the police,’ she says.
‘Dana, listen – ‘
‘I’m not going to mention you. You’d better go. Use the back door.’
‘It’s just that – ‘
‘I told you,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to mention you. You weren’t here, all right?’
‘I love you.’
‘No, you don’t. Now piss off.’
He doesn’t, the bastard. There’s another silence, then a scuffling sound like she’s pushed him away, and then footsteps – his footsteps – heading down the stairs. I picture those shoes again and I’m glad when I hear the back door close and it’s all quiet. Except for Mum’s voice on the phone.
‘Mrs Dana Okoro, that’s right, forty-seven Abbot Street.’
Now I’ve got to risk it. I can’t face Mum and the police at the same time. I’m still
hoping I can get out without her seeing me. If she tells Dad I was here, it’s a belt job this evening. Unless I threaten her with what I know. Can’t make up my mind about that. I crawl out again from under the bed and creep over to the door.
Mum’s still talking on the phone and she’s taken it into the front room. I won’t get a better chance than this. I tiptoe down the stairs. The door to the front room’s open and I can see her in there. She’s got her back to me, one hand holding the phone, the other straightening her hair.
I slip past and head for the kitchen, and she’s talking on, like she hasn’t heard me, and here’s the back door – and shit! I forgot. Romeo closed it on his way out. No way I can open it quietly. It’s a noisy beast at the best of times. Then I realise the talking’s stopped. I freeze and listen, then Mum speaks again.
‘I think there’s someone in the house.’
I yank open the door, slam it after me and race off down the path. Through the gate and out into the alley, and I’m pelting as fast as I can towards the railway bridge. I stay low to make sure the wall cuts me off from the house, but I’m pretty sure Mum can’t see me. She’d have to run upstairs and get to a window and I think I’m ahead of her. Unless she saw me as I scooted down the path.
I’m out in the street now and cutting over to the railway bridge. Under that and down Hendon Street towards the roundabout, quick stop to catch my breath, then on again, jogging now, past the park and on towards the waste ground. But I can’t hide yet. There’s something I’ve got to do first.
Phone box.
No idea how I’m going to do this – I’m rubbish at funny voices – but I’ve got to try. Mum’ll show the police what’s happened but she can’t tell them anything about the guy who broke in, and I can. I pick up the phone: nine, nine, nine. It rings, then there’s a click and a woman asks me which service I want. Only now I can’t speak.
‘Hello?’ she says.
I stare round at the cars and taxis racing past.
‘Hello?’ she says again.
I pull out my handkerchief, stuff it over the mouthpiece.
‘Police,’ I say.
There’s no answer. I try again.
‘I want the police.’
‘Can’t hear you very well.’
I take the handkerchief off the phone and hold it over my mouth.
‘Can you hear me now?’
I’ve messed my voice up best I can but it still sounds like a fifteen-year-old boy trying to pretend he’s someone else.
‘You’re muffled,’ she says.
‘I need the police.’
To my relief, she puts me through. A man comes on, talking brisk, but I cut him off.
‘Write this down. I’ve only got a second.’
‘Can’t hear you very well.’
‘Forty-seven Abbot Street, you got that?’
‘Can you take away whatever you’re holding over your mouth?’
I leave the handkerchief there.
‘Abbot Street,’ I say. ‘I was standing by the alley that runs past the back gardens at the bottom and I saw this guy legging it out the back door of number forty-seven. Don’t know who he is but he looked really suspicious, like he’s just nicked something. You getting this down?’
‘It’s very hard to understand you. Can you give me your name and telephone number?’
‘He’s got dark hair,’ I go on, ‘slick, clean-shaven, smooth-looking guy, about thirty, and he’s got this flash coat. It’s got – ‘
A hand clicks off the phone. I spin round in horror to see the man I’ve just described looking in at me. He’s opened the door of the phone box and he’s blocking my way out. He watches me for a few moments with a kind of cool amusement, then calmly takes the handset from me and slots it back in the holder. I feel my handkerchief flutter to the floor.
‘Glad you like my coat,’ he says quietly.
I stare back at him, try to act confident.
‘I didn’t say I like it. I just said it’s flash.’
His mouth smiles; his eyes don’t. The traffic goes on roaring past. He steps to the side and I see a car parked by the kerb. Big, shiny motor, two men in the front, nearside door open at the back. Flash Coat nods towards it.
‘Get in,’ he says.
‘Bowler is masterly at creating tension and Night Runner is a sharp, suspenseful thriller in a setting of urban deprivation. Filmic, succinct and well crafted, with a hero who commands our sympathy, this high-octane adventure in a low-life world has heart.’
Nicolette Jones, Sunday Times, Children’s Book of the Week
‘You’re in assured hands with a YA novel from Tim Bowler – he’s written 20 books for teenagers and won 15 awards, including the prestigious Carnegie Medal – and Night Runner has all the usual characteristics of balancing gripping action and engrossing characters.’
Martin Chilton, The Telegraph
‘A tense, gripping thriller which doesn’t waste a word.’
Sue Purkiss in Armadillo
‘Gripping and engrossing from the very first chapter this is atmospheric teen thriller writing of the very highest order. One of the best YA novels of 2014.’
Michael Thorn, Achuka
‘A compelling, gritty read by a Carnegie Medal-winning author.’ Amanda Craig,
The New Statesman
‘Very, very exciting.’
Bookwitch
‘An edgy, suspenseful thriller.’
Robert Dunbar, The Irish Times
‘Relentless, edge-of-the-seat drama.’
Vicky Allan, The Herald Scotland
‘A coiled-spring of a thriller. Nobody does this better than Tim Bowler.’
Geoff Fox, Books for Keeps
‘A fast paced book with a very likeable character.’
Teen Books & Magazines
‘A fast-paced novel that sweeps you up in the first chapter and doesn’t put you down until the last. Tim Bowler is a master of the art of creating tension.’
Teacher’s review on Amazon
‘Had me breathless all the way through.’
B.M. Curry, Amazon
‘Every shadow will have you jumping.’
Scholastic
‘Well written and solidly plotted. The action does not falter.’
The Irish Independent
‘The narrative pace is frantic from the first page and the suspense hardly lets up.’
Sam Pope, We Love This Book
‘A pacey psychological thriller with a believable and likeable central character.’
Carol Hall, The Reading Zone
‘A real page-turner.’
Jill Murphy, The Bookbag
‘An edge of your seat and nail-biting adventure.’
Lovereading4kids
‘Night Runner is a fast-moving story and it came to me at a sprint. One moment I had a fifteen-year-old boy called Zinny hiding in his room at home because he’s bunked off school, the next moment a guy has broken into the house, rummaged through things and then run off because Zinny’s mum has turned up unexpectedly with someone dodgy, but then the dodgy someone runs off too, and Zinny – fearing the arrival of the police – does the same, only to be caught outside by the first guy and pushed towards the open door of a car with its engine running – and this was just the opening sequence. I had no idea who any of these people were or what was going on. All I knew for certain was that Zinny was in one hell of a lot of trouble, and it was only going to get worse when we met his father. But I was hooked. What appealed to me about Zinny, what made me care about him, especially once I got going with the story, was his isolation. He has no one to depend on. He’s not just isolated at school, he’s isolated at home too, and even in his head: he’s cut off from his dreams and confused about what he really wants. He doesn’t have friends to help him and his mum and dad have problems of their own, so I found myself writing about a boy in terrible danger, a loner who lives in the city but longs for the country, a brilliant athlete who’s given up running. Something about Zinny clicked for me, perhaps because I knew that in spite of his anger towards his parents, he’s basically just a lad who wants to do the right thing. So yes, Night Runner came to me at a sprint, and pretty soon Zinny was sprinting too.’
Tim Bowler
They told her she was a dreamer, that the pictures she saw were an illusion, that sea glass could not tell a story; but this was a different kind of story. Its thread had been snapped so long ago she had no memory of it, yet the effects had haunted her ever since; and now, fourteen years later, her life was to change again. She’d sensed it already in the whispers from the sea; and here was a new manifestation.
‘You must be able to see it, Tam,’ she said.
He didn’t answer. He just sat there next to her on the cliff-top, staring at the sea glass in her hand. She turned her head and gazed about her: nothing moved on the rocky bluff and a heavy silence hung over the island. She thought of the others down in the bay and wondered why she couldn’t hear them. She felt sure their voices should reach her in this windless calm. She turned back to Tam and saw him watching her face.
‘You’re meant to be looking at the sea glass,’ she said.
‘I can’t see anything in it, Hetty.’
‘I’ll hold it higher.’
She raised the sea glass. It looked dull against the bleak October sky, especially now that the light was fading, but the image was still there: a dark shape floating in the glass, as though breathed there by the sea.
‘Can you see it now?’ she said.
But he was looking at her again.
‘Tam, it’s important.’
‘I won’t see anything,’ he said. ‘I never do.’
‘But the sea glass was blank a moment ago and now it’s got a picture inside it.’
He peered at it again, but she knew he was feigning interest. She lowered the sea glass and closed it inside her hand. He glanced round at her.
‘I haven’t finished looking.’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘You’re right. You’re never going to see anything. Nobody ever does.’ She frowned. ‘I’m the only crazy person on Mora.’
Tam pulled his knees into his chest.
‘So what’s the picture this time? Or are you going to keep it to yourself? You’ve got really funny about the sea glass lately. You used to tell me everything.’
She leaned closer to him.
‘I thought I saw the island in it.’
‘This island?’
‘Of course this island.’ She gave him an impatient look. ‘What other island would I be talking about?’
‘You might have meant one of the others.’
‘How could I recognise islands I’ve never been to?’
‘You know what they all look like. My father’s described them to you enough times.’
‘I meant this island,’ she said.
‘But how could you tell it was Mora in the sea glass?’
‘The top was shaped like North Point,’ she said, ‘and there were bits that looked like Scar Cliff and Holm Edge and High Crag and….’
She stopped suddenly.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Tam.
‘I don’t want you to laugh at me over the sea glass.’
‘I’m not going to laugh at you.’
‘Other people do.’
‘I’m not other people, Hetty. You know that.’
He had that expression on his face again: the one that had only started appearing since they turned fifteen. She still wasn’t sure what to do about it. All she knew was that it made her feel awkward – and somehow guilty. She looked down at the ground.
‘It’s not Mora in the sea glass, Tam.’
‘You just said you saw the island.’
‘I said I thought I did. But I was wrong. The picture started out looking like Mora, but then it changed.’
‘Into what?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She flicked a small stone over the edge of the cliff, then thrust the sea glass into her pocket. ‘Let’s drop it.’
She turned her head and stared down from the cliff-top. The water below looked steely and still. She ran her eye over the rocky bar that stretched across the mouth of the bay as far as Eel Point. The giant boulders that guarded the anchorage had no work to do in this interminable calm: the sea was unruffled all the way to the horizon. She glanced at The Pride of Mora, sitting at her mooring. The island boat was bedecked with bunting but all the flags hung limp.
‘Looks like most people have arrived,’ said Tam, staring down too.
Hetty looked over the shingle beach. It was crawling with figures. She searched for the spot where she’d found the sea glass that morning and saw Mungo and Duffy splashing stones there with Nessa and Jinty just behind them. Tam’s mother and father wandered past with Anna and Dolly and some of the families from the western cottages. A large crowd had already gathered near the top of the beach.
Tam started counting the figures aloud. Hetty pushed the sound of his voice away and squeezed the sea glass in her pocket, her mind on the image within, and on the stillness of the water below; there was something about it that didn’t feel right.
‘The whole island’s turned out,’ said Tam eventually. ‘Mother said they would. Come on. We’d better get down there.’
He jumped to his feet and reached a hand down to pull her up. She pretended not to see it and scrambled up by herself.
‘Tam, listen,’ she said, ‘you go on ahead, all right?’
‘What for?’
‘I want to take my time going down.’
‘You mean you want to be on your own.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Have I upset you over the sea glass?’
‘No, of course not.’ She glanced over at the darkening sea, then back at Tam. ‘I just want a bit of time to think, all right?’
He shrugged.
‘If you say so. But don’t take too long or you’ll miss Per’s speech.’
‘I was half-hoping I would.’
‘You mustn’t, Hetty. You know that. We both mustn’t. My mother and father gave me a lecture about it. And you must have got one from Grandy.’
Hetty remembered her grandmother’s words over breakfast.
‘I don’t want to hear the old buzzard’s speech either, girl, but he’s the oldest person on Mora and the only one to make it to a hundred, so we’ve both got to be at the party and that’s that. And try not to look bored when the old boy pipes up. I know you don’t like each other, but it’s his big day and if you can’t celebrate that, then think of The Pride of Mora and remember it’s her birthday too. And she really is something worth celebrating. Now go and tidy your room.’
‘I’ll see you down there,’ said Tam, and he ran off down the path.
Hetty waited till he’d disappeared from view, then made her way down to the plateau of Broken Tooth Ridge. The bay below her was growing darker by the minute but lights were now moving over the beach, and at the top of the shingle, where the dinghies and small craft had been pulled beyond the tidemark, she could see a fire burning and figures packed around it. The smell of roasting meat wafted up to her.
She felt in her pocket for the sea glass again, thinking of the image swimming inside it, and of the other images, the ones that had never come, in spite of her years of searching; and she thought of the sea again, and the secrets it was keeping from her. The figures on the beach were more shadowy now, but the groupings were so familiar she could still see who was who.
Old Per was standing with Gregor, Harold and his other codger friends, plus Lorna and some of the older women, though not Grandy, Anna or Dolly; they were busy with the fire. Tam was larking about with Mungo, Duffy and the girls, and some of the gang from North Point. She walked on down the path and didn’t stop till she’d reached the little quay tucked into the edge of the bay.
The voices of the others were audible now and it was clear that the speeches had not yet started. She stared over at the figures by the fire, then on an impulse wandered down to the end of the landing stage, pulled out the sea glass, and searched again for the image she had seen inside it. She felt sure it would not be there: the pictures never stayed for long, and some vanished within seconds. Yet to her surprise, it was still visible, even in the darkness: not a picture of Mora as she had first thought, but of a face peering back at her. She heard a whisper from the sea and looked up.
Nothing moved upon the water. She stared about her, shivering slightly. Over to the right, the shingle beach curved away into the shoulder of the cliff, the fire crackling half-way along it. To her left, all was still. No waves lapped against the base of Crab Rock at the eastern extremity of the land. Ahead of her, the mouth of the bay opened to the approaching night. A light swell passed through it and died on the boulders of Eel Point. The Pride of Mora did not stir. Hetty squeezed the sea glass again.
‘It’s starting,’ she murmured.
‘Sea of Whispers is a strong, strong story….elegiac, beautifully written with Bronte-esque descriptions of the wild power of the sea.’
Jill Murphy, Bookbag
‘An evocative, mysterious new novel.’
Fiona Noble, The Bookseller
‘The writing in Sea of Whispers is simple, straightforward and often beautiful – landscapes, characters, events are all brought vividly to life. The pacing is brilliant too, scenes of intense activity or high emotion intercut with much slower-burning sequences. …Just as important is Bowler’s understanding of how tough it is to be stuck between childhood and being an adult. It’s almost worth being a teenager again to enjoy books like his.’
Tony Bradman, The Guardian
‘Highly atmospheric.’
Books for Keeps
‘Compelling, haunting and mysterious.’
Booktrust
‘Sensitive readers who appreciate the genuine gift – and art – of storytelling, impressive style of writing and a deep concept behind a wise and important story, will fall in love with this book.’
School Librarian
‘Tim Bowler’s writing is spare and beautiful, and Sea of Whispers sweeps the reader along to a satisfying and touching ending.’
Katherine Langrish, Armadillo Magazine
‘A very touching story. Reading this book was like a breath of fresh air.’
The Guardian
‘I was caught up by this book and it still lingers in my mind. It’s accomplished writing for accomplished readers.’
Nigel Hinton, Carousel
‘Sea of Whispers, like most of my stories, began long before I put down any words. I started writing the novel in 2011 but the images of sea glass that haunt the dreams of fifteen-year-old Hetty came many years before that when I was on holiday on the island of Bryher in the Scillies and my wife said that she wanted to go down to the beach to see if there was any sea glass worth collecting. There weren’t any decent pieces – just a few nondescript shards from a broken bottle which we left on the sand – but as we walked about the beach searching, a picture slipped into the story-making part of my mind: of beautiful sea glass washed up on the shore; and then I forgot about it and went away and for several years wrote other stories. By the time 2011 had come along and Hetty’s story was whispering inside my head and demanding to be written, I found that the pictures of sea glass had returned, together with echoes from my life that I knew would affect the way I approached the book. The novel took a long time to write, there were many different drafts, and the mystical, elegiac nature of the story made it an emotional tale to tell. Hetty is a strong-minded yet highly sensitive girl and I found myself anxious to do her justice as she struggles to come to terms with her ancient grief, conquer her doubts and stand up to those who mock her. Sea of Whispers is about many things – fear, prejudice, love, loss, hope and more – but ultimately it is the story of a young girl’s courage and her quest to understand the deepest mystery of all.’
Tim Bowler
The body was lying in a thicket – a woman of about thirty – and Maya wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t tripped over a root and rolled up against it. She scrambled back to her feet and stared down. The figure lay motionless, dusk settling over it. From a distant part of the forest came the sound of Tom calling.
‘Maya!’
‘Tom!’ she called back.
But she knew he couldn’t hear her. She’d shouted repeatedly but his voice had continued to move further from her. He was clearly heading back to the village. He tried once more, even so.
‘Where are you?’
That was the trouble. She didn’t know. She didn’t even remember how she’d ended up here. Something must have made her run away from Tom and cut into the trees, yet her mind was a shadow. She had a ghost of recollection.
Something on the path, something yellow.
But that was all.
She didn’t shout back this time. She knew there was no point; and besides, she now had a bigger problem. She looked down at the body. She had to check this out, however scared she felt. There was just a chance this woman was alive. She took a slow breath, then knelt down.
The ground felt hard and bony. She peered at the body, wary in case it suddenly moved, but all was still. She inched nearer, the dusk thickening around her. Even this close it was hard to make out the figure clearly, but gradually the image defined itself.
A curvy form, chest and stomach still, so too the face. Eyes shut. A blue dress, the colour just discernible in the fading light, and a low neckline. The woman seemed to have come from a party. There was no sign of an injury.
Something glinted in the darkness, a pendant nestling in the woman’s cleavage: a horseshoe emblem on a slender chain. A lock of hair fell over it and then was still. Maya clenched her fists. This woman was surely dead.
And yet….
‘Are you alive?’ she said.
Her voice sounded small in the darkening forest. There was no response, but from somewhere near came a rustling sound. She whirled round and peered into the gloom. The rustling stopped and silence fell once more.
She could feel herself starting to panic. She thought of her mobile back at home. Not that it would help much here. She had no idea how to describe where she was. She’d barely found her way round Hembury village in the few days since the family moved here. The forest she didn’t know at all.
The rustling came again.
Then faded as before.
She stood up. She had to find the path home, raise the alarm, and somehow memorise the way to this place, so that she could describe it to the police. She looked about her and straightaway found the perfect marker: a huge beech tree, clearly damaged. Even in this poor light she could see that two of the lower branches had been cut off and a third was supported by a cradle of ropes from above.
She looked back at the body on the ground.
‘I’m going to run back home,’ she whispered. She had no idea why she was talking to this woman. ‘I’m going to find Mum and Dad, and they’ll call the police. I’ll run as fast as I can. You won’t be on your own for long.’
It was then that she heard footsteps.
Not heavy. Quite the opposite. They sounded stealthy. She crouched, her eyes moving fast. This didn’t have to be dangerous. It might even be someone who could help, someone who might miss all this and walk straight past if she didn’t call out or show herself.
But she stayed where she was and said nothing.
The footsteps drew closer. She edged behind an oak tree and waited. Closer, closer, slow footsteps – then suddenly they stopped and silence fell once more. She stayed behind the oak, her ears straining.
But all she heard was a rustle in the leaves above her that died as she craned her head round to look. The foliage was still, as though it had never moved. She turned and gazed back at the dead woman.
Still lying in the same position, but something looked different. Then she saw it. The head had tilted to the side, the long hair falling away, and the eyes were now open; and underneath them – like a third eye – the horseshoe pendant was shining in the darkness.
Maya stared. She wanted to run so much, but she found she couldn’t move. The pendant went on shining, and something in the dead eyes seemed to shine too. She swallowed. This was madness. She had to break free.
She slipped from behind the oak and crept towards the edge of the thicket. The dusk was now so heavy it was hard to see anything clearly, but somehow she made out the way to go. She stole forward, watching, listening.
Here was the clearing. She remembered stumbling into it on her mad rush here. To the left was the damaged beech tree; to the right the deeper, denser folds of the forest. It was hard to believe she’d crashed through that, yet remembered so little of it.
But that was the way she had to go. She knew that much at least. The path home lay somewhere in that direction. She took a deep breath and set off across the clearing – only to freeze once again.
A second body was lying before her.
Straight ahead.
She made herself creep closer. She had to check this out too. She knew it. She couldn’t just run past, however much she wanted to. It was a man this time, and like the woman, clearly dead. She knelt beside him. No movement in the stomach or chest. The eyes were open but they were vacant.
Once again, there was no sign of an injury.
She was trembling now. She forced herself to study the body. The police would ask questions. They’d want a description. She tried to take in what she could, muttering what she saw into the silent air.
‘Man about thirty-five, suit, tie, white shirt, red hair…’
She stopped, looked again. But there was no mistake. The darkness was draining all colour from the body, yet something red still clung to the hair.
‘Red hair,’ she went on, ‘and…and a silver watch.’
Something was moving over to the right, a shadow among the trees at the top of the clearing. She narrowed her eyes and stared; but the shadow was gone and all was gloom again. She tried to stay calm, make herself think.
There were probably lots of paths back to the village but she didn’t know them. She had to find the way she’d come, and that meant heading for the trees, whatever else lay in that direction; and she had to go now. She set off across the clearing, walking fast.
She wanted to run. She wanted to burst through the trees and away from this place, but she knew she had to resist. All her instincts told her that the moment she broke into a run, panic would take over. A fast, steady walk was what was needed. Yet even as she walked, she felt a pressure to look back.
She ignored it. She had to scan the trees, watch for danger, find the path, get away. She mustn’t look back. Just keep walking, walking, walking. She strode on, step, step, step, but still the pressure grew. She stopped, breathing hard, and turned.
The man’s body was still visible, lying on its back, but as with the woman, the head had tilted to the side and the eyes were shining in the darkness. She turned and hurried on towards the trees – only to freeze yet again.
The shadow was back, directly in front of her. The features were hidden, the form blurred, but there was no mistaking the figure standing there, back towards her, bent over a third body, stretched upon the forest floor.
She stared, and as she did so, she saw the figure stiffen, as though it had sensed her, and straighten, and turn towards her. But she saw no more. She was running wild, blundering through thickets, coppices, tawny shrubs.
She had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she was crashing through branches, brambles, foliage. She heard shouts. Some were hers, some were not. She couldn’t catch the words.
They came again, somewhere near. She thought of the shadow and raced on. The shouts continued but she was hardly listening now. All she wanted was to run, run, run. But she didn’t know which way to go. Then she saw it. Straight ahead.
She stopped, gasping, and peered into the darkness. Before her was a wall of trees – and something else. Two yellow eyes, watching her; and now a head, and a body. Then she saw what it was.
A fox.
Recollection came streaming back. She’d seen a fox earlier, perhaps this very one. She remembered it now. It had been on the path and she’d followed it into the forest, leaving Tom behind. But why had she done that? And why had she forgotten about it till now?
‘What do you want?’ she heard herself say.
The yellow eyes closed, opened, closed again.
And in the space where they had been, she saw a narrow path through the trees.
She tore down it, screaming. But here were the shouts again, and they were closer than ever. She ran on, on, the voices growing louder – and then she fell. She saw leaves, branches, the trunk of a tree, the face of the forest floor as she tumbled upon it.
And a shadow leaning over her.
A symphony of unease…..this book won’t make you feel safe.’
Nicolette Jones, Sunday Times
‘Carnegie-winner Bowler is on great form with this intense, psychological thriller.’
The Bookseller
‘A tense and haunting thriller.’
Julia Eccleshare, Lovereading
‘An ingenious, fast-moving, highly readable gothic mystery.’
The School Librarian
‘Frightening and well paced…..reminded me of Alan Garner’s classic The Owl Service.’
Geraldine Brennan, The Observer
‘A powerfully atmospheric psychological thriller.’
Robert Dunbar, Irish Times
‘Truly chilling.’
Bookbag
‘Buried Thunder is a tour de force….teen fiction at its very best.’
Lancashire Evening Post
‘A bone-chilling and eerie story.’
John Millen, South China Morning Post
‘I wasn’t ready to scream, but I wasn’t far from it.’
Bookwitch
‘Prepare to be chilled to the soul.’
Armadillo
‘I thought it was inspired.’
The Book Zone
‘A thrilling tale.’
Booktime
‘A dark, psychological thriller with genuine moments of chilling horror.’
Readingzone
‘A simply brilliant and utterly compelling book.’
Mostly Books
‘An absolutely brilliant read.’
Waterstones
‘Dark, intense and compelling.’
Goodreads
‘Like most of my novels, Buried Thunder started from an image in my head. I had no idea what that image meant or where it was going to lead, but I followed it as I always do. The picture I saw was a girl rushing through a forest at dusk and stumbling – literally – upon a body lying in a thicket: a woman of about thirty. I didn’t know who the girl was or the woman, or why they were there, but I was intrigued by the picture, so I carried on. The girl checks the body over, makes sure the woman is dead, then hurries off to raise the alarm in the village. The trouble is she’s not sure of the way back, since her family have only just moved to the area – and there’s an even bigger problem. She’s barely taken a few steps before she sees a second body lying in front of her: a man with red hair. By this time the words were coming fast. She checks the man over. He too is clearly dead. She sets off again, only to see a figure standing at the top of the clearing, bent over a third body lying on the forest floor. And suddenly she’s running for her life. This was still Chapter One. I had no idea who all these people were and I was also aware of another question. What was it that had sent the girl rushing into the forest in the first place? That brought me to the central character in the story, and its most potent symbol. The fox. I’ve been fascinated by foxes all my life and I quickly realised that the presence of a fox was going to dominate this novel; and so it was that during the writing of Buried Thunder, as the girl – Maya – struggles with the elemental forces closing around her and her family in their ancient country hotel, I found myself obsessed with the role of the fox in the story, and with foxes in general. Yet for all the research I did into the nature and mythology of foxes, I still found myself yearning for something more visceral, more personal that I could experience, something that would give me the kind of insight I felt I didn’t yet have into these sinister and beautiful creatures. Then one day that experience came to me. For many years now I have been working in an old stone outhouse at the top of my village. My family and friends call it ‘Tim’s Bolthole’ and although it’s very primitive, it’s a perfect place to write: peaceful, secluded and situated on a big parcel of land with fields and rolling hills all around. Not far away there’s a paddock and a stable, and the snort of horses is often the only sound I hear during my working hours. Some months into the writing of Buried Thunder I stepped out of the Bolthole late one afternoon to take a break and gather my thoughts. I’d written the first draft and was into the second, but I wasn’t happy with the material, especially the scenes with the fox. I felt I hadn’t connected with the animal in the way I wanted to. I wasn’t sure what was missing, but something was, and it was unsettling me. In this mood I wandered down to the low paddock fence and leaned on it. Everything was quiet. The horses were inside the stable and dusk was falling. I just leaned on the fence, thinking, then after a few moments, I sensed that something was watching me from the paddock. I turned my head slightly to the right, and there, no more than ten yards away, was a fox. It just stood there, watching me with those strange yellow eyes. I stared back and neither of us moved for some time, then suddenly it looked down and started grubbing in the ground with its paws. This went on for a minute or two, then just as suddenly, it stopped and fixed me with its eyes again. And so it went on, the animal staring, then looking down and grubbing in the ground, then staring again, and me just standing there, looking back. Ten minutes went by, then abruptly it ended. A last bout of grubbing, a final stare, an electrifying moment of stillness, then the animal turned, loped away round the back of the stable, and was gone. I realise now that the birth of Buried Thunder took place at this point.’
Tim Bowler
Readers wishing to buy the complete series are sometimes confused by the sight of other Blade titles on the net. The problem has arisen because the Blade series was originally published in eight short books with different titles and the American Blade series then added further new titles. All these titles are now obsolete but many are still available on the net and this has sometimes made things confusing for readers. Fortunately the problem is easy to solve. To read the complete Blade series, you simply need to acquire the four books mentioned above. Ignore all other titles.
‘Nobody in children’s writing is producing anything like this. It’s electrifying.’
The Bookbag
‘Yet another captivating creation from Tim Bowler.’
Lovereading
‘Taut, intimate and wholly gripping…a remarkable and riveting series.’
Books for Keeps
‘A modern classic.’
School Librarian
‘My heart felt as if it was a lot further up than its normal position as I raced through Blade.’
Bookwitch
‘A gripping story.’
Julia Eccleshare
‘The tension is palpable and anyone who starts this book will not be able to stop.’
Cindy Mitchell, Kiss the Book
‘Sharply written without a wasted word.’
Irish Independent
‘An intense, gripping story.’
Publishers Weekly
‘Bowler’s use of short, clipped sentences creates a breathless tone that keeps readers on edge and turning pages at breakneck speed.’
Patricia McClune, School Library Journal
‘Fast and addictive.’
David Maybury
‘An addictive blend of paranoia and suspense.’
The Horn Book
‘Stunning new thriller’
Becky Stradwick, Publishing News
‘It was a thrilling and exhilarating novel and I would give it 10 out of 10 in a star rating.’
Lee Mein, Firrhill High, Teen Titles
‘As sharp as its title suggests, this is a relentless and brilliant page turner.’
The Bookseller
‘The Blade series is an odyssey about a fourteen-year-old boy with a dangerous past and an uncertain future. I have tried to write a pacy thriller that not only focuses upon an engaging central character but also touches upon issues that concern me: gang culture, the exploitation of young people in fragmented communities, youth violence, and especially knife crime. It horrifies me to think of young people using knives and while I am a storyteller rather than a crusader, I cannot deny that one of my reasons for writing the Blade series was to try to show young readers that you cannot wield a knife without devastating consequences both for your victims and yourself. Knives have nothing to do with honour or respect. They are instruments of pain, mutilation and death and the use of them requires a committed act of personal savagery. The Blade series does not glorify, romanticise or in any way exalt the knife but seeks instead to show the hideous reality of knife culture. The boy at the heart of the story has lived by violence but he is not a thug. He is smart, articulate, even likable, and he’s in terrible danger. His enemies are drawing nearer, he’s becoming increasingly haunted by guilt for the things he’s done, and he’s struggling to find some kind of redemption. His life now hangs in the balance.’
Tim Bowler
The bridge slips from my grasp. I peer down at the river. It’s yawning in the night, far below me, and I’m falling towards it like a wingless bird. Dead in my body, dead in my heart. Ready to die again.
Only I can’t.
A weightless moment, an ecstasy of fear, then the vice closes round me, hooks my chest, jerks me upwards. Something hard slams into my back. The metal rails at the top of the bridge. My feet slither back on the ledge, skid off again.
The vice tightens, hauls me back against the top of the bridge. I hang there, whimpering, kicking my legs. Ruby’s voice blares down at me.
‘Chicken bastard!’
She’s got me from behind. Must have reached through the rails just as I let go of ’em. Got both her arms under mine and they’re locked round my chest. And now she’s yanking me back towards the ledge.
‘Chicken waster,’ she mutters, ‘chicken bloody—’
‘Ruby—?’
‘Think killing yourself’s going to sort everything?’
‘Ruby—’
‘Going to pay your debt to my daughter?’
‘Ruby—’
‘Well, it ain’t! Cos jumping off a bridge don’t pay no debt to Becky! Don’t pay no debt to nobody!’
‘Ruby!’ I splutter. ‘Ruby!’
She takes no notice, just goes on hauling me up.
‘Let me go!’ I scream.
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘I’m a piece of shit!’
‘Yeah, like I don’t know that.’
I kick my legs again, try to wriggle free. I don’t want to live, Bigeyes. I don’t deserve to. Becky died in the river. And she died cos of me. So I got to die there too. No question. I got to die there too.
I stare down at Mother Grime. Her black watery mouth’s still open, waiting for me. I wriggle again, thrash about. Makes no difference. Ruby only tightens her grip, goes on pulling. I feel my feet clock back on the ledge. Ruby crabs her arms round my stomach, snags me hard against the rails.
I feel my hands close round the metal. Like they want to.
Even if I don’t.
I shut my eyes. No sounds from the bridge. No voices, no traffic. Just me and Ruby breathing hard, the river whispering below. Then Ruby’s voice again, still raging.
‘Think killing yourself’s going to put you right, huh?’
I don’t answer.
‘Huh?’ she snaps.
I open my eyes, stare down again. Mother Grime goes on flowing. I think of Becky’s body, swallowed by water. How the grinks in the van shot her all those years ago, heaved her off the bridge to disappear for ever.
How it was my fault. Cos they were my enemies, Bigeyes, not hers. But she died and I lived. It’s not right. Becky was my friend. My best friend ever. I should be with her, right now. Whatever her mum says.
Ruby tightens her grip, like she’s picked up my thought.
‘Still want to jump, right?’ she fumes.
I say nothing. She leans her head close to the rails.
‘Yeah, you do. You want to jump. You know why? Cos you’re a coward. A slimy little coward. You think jumping off wipes your slate clean. Well, it don’t. It’s just the chicken way out. But I guess that’s cool with you. The chicken way out. Cos it don’t take no guts, huh? No responsibility, no—’
‘Ruby—’
‘Go and jump!’ she bellows. ‘If that’s all you got. Cos I’m telling you—if that’s the best you got for Becky, then you ain’t worth piss. You want to top yourself? Go ahead!’
She lets go, slips her arms free.
‘Or do something better. Your call.’
Sound of footsteps on the bridge. Ruby tramping away, heading for the north side. I watch her for a moment through the rails. She doesn’t look back, not once. I want her to. But I know she won’t. She’ll just go on walking.
If I jump, she won’t even notice.
I stare down at the river again.
‘Mother Grime,’ I murmur. ‘You bitch.’
Look back at Ruby. She’s disappeared from view, but she’ll still be walking.
Still not looking.
‘Bitch,’ I murmur after her. ‘Yeah, Ruby, you too.’
I climb back over the rail, drop down onto the bridge. Ruby’s close to the north side now, trigging steadily on. I start to walk after her. Don’t ask me why, Bigeyes, cos I don’t know. She’s the last person in the world I want right now.
And I’m the last person she wants.
But I keep walking, walking, walking.
Then I catch it. The sound of the motor. Coming from the south side. Doesn’t sound like a problem. Shouldn’t even be worried about it. Middle of the night, quiet time, but there’s been other traffic, a bit anyway. This could be anyone.
Only it’s not, Bigeyes. It’s not anyone. It’s trouble.
Don’t ask me how I know.
I don’t even need to look round. But I do. And it’s what I thought. A van chunking over the bridge towards me, towards Ruby. Just like it did the day Becky got shot. And now here’s her mum in just the same danger.
And once again—cos of me.
I scream at Ruby.
‘Run for it! Run for it!’
I race down towards her. She’s not running but she’s turned and she’s watching me hare across the bridge.
‘Ruby! Run!’
She’s still not running. She’s stopped and she’s just watching me. What’s wrong with her? She must have seen the van steaming up behind me. There’ll be grinks in it, just like there were with Becky. It’s all happening again, like it did three years ago.
Sound of a shot.
Misses me, misses Ruby, but now she starts running, only—Jesus!—she’s cutting the wrong way. Meant to be blasting off the north side but she’s belting straight at me.
‘Ruby, go back! Head for the alleyways! Other side of the main road!’
Engine’s getting louder. Glance round. Van’s close to the middle of the bridge now. Three gobbos in the front, one leaning out the window. Another shot.
Misses again.
I stumble on and here’s Ruby bustling up.
‘Ruby, for Christ’s sake—’
She doesn’t answer, just grabs my hand, pulls me over to the other side of the bridge. Van swerves across the road towards us. I’m praying for something else to slum up. Car, bus, taxi, whatever. But still nothing.
Van skews to a halt. Two of the gobbos pile out.
Ruby’s still pulling me towards the edge of the bridge, and now I see where she’s heading. The steps down to the wharf.
‘Not down there, Ruby.’
She takes no notice, just goes on pulling.
‘Ruby!’
She tugs me harder.
‘OK, OK,’ I mutter. ‘I got what you want.’
She lets go and we pile down the steps. Feet pound behind us on the bridge.
This is a dronky idea, Bigeyes. I should never have let Ruby jam us down here. We’ll never get away. The grinks are too fast, too strong, and they’ll block the way back. And they got guns.
Shit!
First I get Becky killed, now it’s going to be her mum. And Ruby was only trying to clip me clear of these grinks. I got to do my best for her. For Becky’s sake too. Sound of feet above us.
Thump, thump, thump.
They’re taking the steps in twos and threes. We got a lead but not much.
‘Faster,’ says Ruby.
Bottom of the steps and here’s the wharf. Dimpy place to hide. We’re separated from the bank by a small channel, got nothing to the left and just a short quay to the right with a few slaggy river boats and a big old motor cruiser at the end. No lights on any of ’em.
But we’re not here to hide. I worked out Ruby’s plan on the way down. She thought the alleyways up top are too far to get to, since the gobbos have got guns. So she’s led ’em down here and now we got to belt back to the street, taking the steps up the other side of the bridge.
And lose the bastards on the way.
There’s just a chance it might work. Both the gobbos are on this set of steps. I can tell from the sound of ’em. We might just be able to wig it up the others. I start to cut right but Ruby catches my arm.
Jesus, Bigeyes. Now what?
She’s staring at the boats, and now she’s pulling me off to the left. I glare at her. Heavy breaths above us, feet getting louder. Ruby glares back, pulls me harder, and now I get it. She’s not heading for the other steps. She’s slipping us round the back of these ones.
Another crap idea. Even worse than coming down in the first place. But we got no time to do anything else now. The grinks are almost down. I let her pull me round the base of the steps. She draws me in close to her, arm over my shoulder. I feel her breathing hard, her body warm against me.
Not acting like she’s scared.
I’m telling you, Bigeyes, she’s something, this woman. Might have made a dimpy choice coming down here but she’s something. No wonder Becky had so much bottle. She got it from her mum.
Thump, thump.
Silence.
The grinks have hit the wharf. Only they’re not moving. They’re standing there, just hidden, other side of the steps. I glance at Ruby. She’s pulled out her mobile.
Got one arm holding me close, and we’re crouching in the darkness with those two grinks still standing there on the other side of the steps, and with her other hand she’s texting.
Catches my eye, looks down again, goes on texting, sparks off a message, slips the mobile back in her pocket. Cool as a breeze. Not like me. I’m starting to breathe blood.
I can feel it pounding in my head. I got my hands moving inside my coat and they’re squeezing the knives, just like they used to. Only it’s not the same, not now. Cos I don’t love the blades any more. I hate ’em. But it makes no difference.
My hands still find ’em.
Hold ’em tight. They’re ready. Won’t do much good probably. Least one of these grinks has got a gun. Maybe both of ’em. Maybe all three. But they haven’t found us yet so we still got surprise on our side.
And that means a chance.
Ruby looks at me sharp. I try to read her face in the darkness. It’s saying something, something I can’t make out. And then I catch it. Something I recognize from the past. Cos it’s something Becky used to have in her face.
The word no.
In her face, in her eyes.
No.
That’s all.
No to what? Don’t play thick, Bigeyes. No to everything. That’s what it meant. Everything that’s wrong, she meant. And there was plenty wrong back then. You bet there was. Right now it’s the knives that’s wrong.
Yeah, even here, with grinks ready to wipe us out, Ruby’s felt my hands move inside my coat and she’s guessed what they got, and her face is saying that word again, throwing it at me through the darkness.
No.
I feel my fingers ease.
Just a bit.
Sound of movement, other side of the steps. Slow, slow. They’re not moving away. They’re checking round and they’re taking their time. They know we’re still down here. They’d have rushed up the other steps by now if they thought we’d blasted out that way.
So much for Ruby’s plan.
They’ll check everywhere, including here.
And they’re not stupid. One of ’em’ll keep close to the steps. See what I mean? Shadow moving over to the right. Ruby’s clapped it too. Pulls me closer to her, crouching even lower. Shadow hasn’t turned, hasn’t seen us yet. It’s wandering down the wharf, stopping by each of the river boats, peering down.
And the other grink?
You guessed it. Bastard’s still standing at the bottom of the steps. There’s no way he’s going to let us back up again. Easy piss. He stands here, guards these steps, keeps an eye on the other ones at the same time. Second gobbo goes looking.
Third gobbo up on the bridge checks down too. I’m guessing he can’t see too good from up there, what with the bridge in the way, so we may just stay cute from him, but he’s another problem we got to smack.
Shadow’s stopped. Halfway down the wharf. Fixing one of the river boats. It’s rocking in the swell. Sound of a cough from his mate. Still standing close to the bottom of the steps, just the other side of the brick. Check out the shadow again.
It’s moving. Guy’s clambering aboard the boat. Disappears from view round the back of the cabin. Only now Ruby’s shifting too. Got a hand over my mouth.
Yeah, right. Like I’m going to suddenly blab a noise. Like I haven’t spent my whole life ducking slime. I shake my head, scowl at her. She takes her hand away, grips my arm, edges me towards the side of the wharf.
Welcome to the Big Beast. Welcome to Hell.
Check around you, Bigeyes. Early morning, November sun. Cute little street, cute little school, cute little kiddies trigging through the gate. The great capital waking up around us. Plum place, yeah?
Think again.
Cos it’s all wrong. It’s zipping you over. Everything you see, everything you feel. Come closer, Bigeyes, and listen good. This is big new grime. It’s not like the old city, the one we just escaped from.
This is the Beast.
And I’ll tell you something about him.
Something you got to know.
Makes no difference how much sun there is, how many dinky kids or spiced up people you can see waking and shaking their lives into gear. The Beast’s not what you think. Not what anyone thinks.
I know what I’m talking about. I was born here. I grew up here. If you can call it growing up. But never mind that. I know the Beast, right? I know him like I know my own body. If you think I was brained up on the old city, that’s nothing to what I know about the Beast.
You probably heard about the taxi drivers. How they know every single street in the city. They learn it, road by road, and they get tested on it. Like it’s a qualification. Yeah, right. Is that meant to impress me?
Well, it doesn’t. I knew all that gump by the time I was seven. Every lane, every street, every dronky little mews. All the places too. Hotels, clubs, theatres, cinemas, brothels, you name it. All the bollocky monuments. I got so bored knowing everything about the Beast I made up own names for all the different places.
I got that kind of memory. I remember everything I want to remember. People, places, stories, numbers, whatever. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I can remember. That’s one of the things that’s got me in trouble. But here’s what’s weird about the Beast.
I learnt all these things about him, then I found I was wrong. I didn’t really know the Beast at all. Not like I thought I did. I just knew the names, and the places to hide. I know him better now. You bet I do. And you got to get cracked on him too, Bigeyes.
Cos there’s stuff about the Beast you got to learn fast.
First up, he’s not like the old city. The one we just left. She was big, yeah, but she’s nothing to this guy. Second, the Beast’s not even a city, not even a capital. Yeah, yeah, he’s called both. In the tourist books.
He’s got all the bung they blab about. Stations, parks, banks, businesses, stores, sights, all that shit. But he’s got something else too. Something you won’t find in the tourist books.
Another city.
And another, and another, and another.
Cos here’s what most nebs don’t know. We’re not in a city. We’re in ten cities rolled into one. More than ten. The Beast’s a country all his own. And I’m not just talking about size, Bigeyes, how far he spreads out. I’m talking about layers. Cities within cities, lives within lives.
That’s where the darkness comes from.
The cities you don’t see.
The lives you don’t see.
Trust me. I know.
But never mind that now. Cop a glint over the kids. Most of ’em in the playground but some still ripping in through the gate. Keep back, well back, and watch cute. Stay behind this van and peep round the edge.
OK, Bigeyes, got the kids? Got the main gate? Right, now check out the car parked down on the left, the flash grey one. And the guy sitting at the wheel. Smooth gobbo, shiny suit, sharp eyes.
See ’em moving? Can’t, can you? That’s cos he’s cute and you’re a dimp. Look again, Bigeyes. Look better. Got ’em now? The eyes? Still missing ’em, aren’t you? Dungpot.
Never mind. Take it from me. They’re moving. I know. How do I know? Cos he’s like me. He knows how to watch. So we got to stay fizzed. For one very good reason.
The bastards know I’m here.
Back at the Beast, I mean. I’m not talking about this little street, or this gobbo. Jesus, if he knew what’s going on, I might as well flip over now. But he doesn’t. He’s smart and he watches good, but he hasn’t slammed me. And he won’t, unless I dunk it big time.
He’s like all the other grinks. Does what he’s told, gets paid, goes home. Asks no questions. No, I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the scumbos who tell him what to do, and the slimeheads above them. They’re the ones who’ll know I’m back at the Beast.
It’s a simple equation.
They got Jaz and they know I’ll come for her. Cos they know I care. Xennie slung that one when she blotched on me and Bex. So they’ll know I won’t wig it out of here and all they got to do is wait till I show.
And they’re right. I’ve come back for Jaz. She’s all I want. I don’t give two bells what happens to me long as she gets away safe. But I’ll tell you something, Bigeyes. If she’s dead, there’s something else I’ll have.
My revenge.
Keep still. Nothing I can do. He’s too strong and I’m too weak. He’s going to rub me out or he’s going to take me. One or the other. Can’t stop either right now. So keep still.
Got to act like I’m blown out, like I’m no trouble. He might just hesitate and give me a slot. Keep my lids low, peer up. I can see the shape of him, just. No sign of the other two.
He leans down. He’s wearing a doc’s coat. Keep my eyes glazed. Make like I’m drugged, like I’m stumpy in the head. I might just get a chance to do something.
But there’ll only be one slam.
Got to act like I got nothing in me. Then hit when I can.
His eyes are close to mine. He’s drilling me, peering in. Roll my eyes, let ’em mist up. But I got a good shot of him now. Tall gobbo, thirty odd, ice cold. Never seen him before today.
The knife’s moving, stroking my throat.
He likes this. He’s having fun. I stay glazed, go on acting limp. He keeps his other hand tight over my mouth, leans closer, whispers.
‘Time to get you out of here.’
And then he moves, fast. Hands flip back but before I can make a sound, he’s got tape squeaked over my lips and round my cheeks. Next moment he’s ripped the needle and drip out of my arm, and the knife’s back over my throat.
He’s chill, this gobbo. And he’s a pro.
He checks the doorway. Nobody there, no sounds in the corridor. He looks back, gives a little grin. Strokes the blade over my skin, grabs me by the hair, eases my head up from the bed.
‘No point acting,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re wide awake.’
I keep my eyes glazed. Got to keep doing it, whatever he says. Got to make like I’m spaced. Got to bide my time, keep my strength, wait for the moment, take him by surprise. And it won’t be easy. He’s no dumflush dreg like Paddy’s gobbos.
He sits me up, his eyes close to mine again. I can feel him peering hard. He’s searching inside my head, trying to click onto me. I stay glazed, limp.
Feel a sudden shock.
My body jerks forward. Can’t help it. I know what he’s done. He’s dinked me with the knife. Just a little one at the base of the spine to shake me up. And now he’s peering inside my head again. Keep glazed, keep limp. Hang down in his arms.
He’s not bluffed. He knows I’m playing dog-eye with him.
‘Won’t work,’ he whispers.
Another dink of the knife. I jerk forward again, into his arms. He pulls my head in close to his, and there’s his eyes searching my skull again. Somehow I keep glazing back. He’s getting impatient now. Or maybe he’s starting to wonder a bit. Got to hope he is. Got to make him feel I’m no sweat. Got to squeeze a lapse out of him.
He straightens up suddenly, pulls me by the hair towards the edge of the bed, gets his arms round my legs and twists them so I’m sitting there, slopped over.
‘Put these on,’ he mutters.
He’s found some clothes. Or brought ’em.
‘They should fit you,’ he says.
I slump back on the bed.
‘Sit up.’ He’s getting angry now. ‘Or I’ll make you.’
I don’t move.
He yanks me upright again, his eyes dark. Whips the knife in front of my face, flints it from side to side, trying to make my eyes follow. Blade glints but I keep glazed.
Suddenly he flings me back on the bed. He’s crouched over me, dead close, too close. I try to open my mouth. It’s no good. Tape’s on too tight. And now he’s pulling off my hospital gown.
I hate this. I got pictures from the past flashing by. I want to squirm, fight back. But I got to go on playing dog-eye. Got to stay limp, stay like I don’t know what’s going on.
He’s got the gown off me now. I’m naked on the bed, gobbo bent over me, knees either side of my body. And he’s touching me again. Only thank Christ, not that other way.
But it’s still bad.
He’s pulling the shirt on me, and then the sweater, and the pants and trousers, and socks and shoes. He’s quick and clever, and suddenly I’m dressed and he’s looking round at the door.
Still nobody there.
He’s off the bed now, picking me up.
‘Time to go,’ he mouths.
And he’s carrying me towards the door.
I stay limp, let my arms hang loose. He doesn’t bother about them. Feels confident he can handle me. And he can right now. I feel like I got no strength at all. I’m just hoping I can find enough to do the business if I get a chance.
And I got to make a chance.
Cos once he’s got me outside the hospital, it’s over.
He won’t be working alone. I told you. There’s lots of grinks after me. There’s the ones who want to rub me out for what I did. The enemies of my enemies. And there’s the ones who want me alive. But that’s only so they can torture me for what they want to know. And when they got that, they’ll rub me out too.
So either way, it’s bad.
Not quite sure why I’m talking to you at all. I don’t even know you. Maybe it’s something Becky said to me. You got to make sense of your life. You got to think about what you’re doing. You got to think before you act. And if you ever want to talk, I’m here for you. Except Becky’s dead.
So maybe that’s why I’m dumping on you.
Not that I feel obliged to tell you the truth, mind. Don’t get any ideas. I mean, I might tell you the truth but I might not. Just so you know.
I call the shots here. I choose what I say and what I don’t. You can choose whether to stay or wig it somewhere else. And if you choose to wig it, that’s fine with me. I don’t need you. Remember that.
I don’t need anyone.
Thing about lying—we’re all told it’s wrong. Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth. But where’s that ever got anyone? I’ve been lying since as long as I can remember. Why? Cos everyone I’ve ever known has lied to me.
So what am I going to tell you? Not much so don’t get excited. You probably want to know my name. Well, that’s a bit of a problem. I got loads.
There’s the name I was given as a baby but that’s a dronky name so I never use it. Then there’s the names I make up. I got binbags of those. Different names for different people. Depends on where I am and who I’m with.
But there is one name I like.
It’s the name Becky gave me. A name from the past. Everybody called me it in the old days. No one does now cos no one in this city knows it. And that’s fine. I don’t like to remember. But I do like the name. You can use it if you want.
BLADE.
That’s what they used to call me. And I liked it. Bit of style, bit of clash. But remember—it’s a secret. Don’t be a claphead and spew it. If I find out you’ve blotched on me, then you’ll find out why Becky called me Blade.
As for the rest of the world, I don’t give two bells what people call me. Why fuss about a name when you can make ’em up so easy? And you know what? Life’s a bit like that too.
Easy, simple, no sweat.
What you shaking your head for? Don’t believe me? Well, I don’t care. Believe what you like. It’s true anyway. Life’s a whack. It’s no big deal coping with stuff. Other people—they make a horse trough out of it, get stressed out. Me, I’m different.
It’s like I’m on top of this mountain, this great big mountain, higher than all the others, higher than—what’s it called—Everest. Miles higher. I’m all on my own with my head way up above everybody else, and I’m fine about it. There’s no one’ll ever conquer me, cos no one’ll ever get near me.
You listening to this, Bigeyes?
That’s what it’s about. It’s about seeing things from a higher place than everybody else. Seeing things no one else can.
Like that guy in Caf? Blue Sox. I can see things about him no one else can. I can see things about him even he can’t see. Got him? Table by the window. Not the guy with the vomity hair. He’ll be leaving in a minute. Don’t ask me how I know.
The other guy, the one with the mobile phone. Brown hair, about twenty, bit smooth. Got him?
There’s loads like him round here. Big head, small brain. This city breeds ’em. Very easy meat. He’ll finish his phone call in a minute, drape his coat over the back of that empty chair next to him, and forget about it.
Why? Cos all his attention’ll be taken up with that blond girl behind the bar.
There you go. What did I tell you? Vomity’s leaving. Now?watch Dogbrain. There he goes, see? Mobile down, sip of coffee, coat over the chair.
Walk over, stand outside, wander in. Busy place, lots of yak. Even better.
No one notices me. I’m good at that. No one notices me when I don’t want ’em to. I might be invisible. Only the red-lipped girl behind the bar sees me, and that’s just cos I want a coffee.
Blondie’s already over by the window talking to Dogbrain.
‘Can I help you?’ says Redlips.
‘Latte, please. Medium.’
She fixes me the latte. Take it over to the window. Blondie’s still there, leaning over the guy’s chair. They’re talking about nothing. Murmurs, giggles.
Sit down at the next table. They don’t notice. Move the chair closer to his. More murmurs, giggles. They’re talking about a guy he knows, some dungpot called Kenny.
Check round me, check the guy, check the girl.
Nobody even knows I’m here. I might be a dream, a spirit. I love doing this. I know where the wallet is. I can see the shape of it from here. Inside pocket of the jacket, closed with a zip.
Another check round—stop. Blondie’s straightened up. She’s looking me over. But she’s not noticing me. She’s thinking of Dogbrain even as she looks at me.
The guy hasn’t even turned. He’s drinking her up with his eyes like she’s some kind of cocktail. She looks back at him, leans down again, puts a hand on his shoulder.
Two minutes later I’ve drunk my latte and gone. And I’ve got a nice fat wallet.
I’ve also got a problem.
I’m being followed.
His first impression was a grey light, the absence of pain, and a certainty that he was dead. A pause; a shift from grey to gold, from the absence of pain to the presence of something else; and with that – doubt.
This was not death. Yet nor was it life. It was something he didn’t recognise, and the presence he’d sensed was now a form, a clearly solid form in this most unsolid place.
Another pause. Who or what it was that paused, he didn’t know – himself or this form, perhaps both. He had a feeling it was aware of him. More light, a deeper gold: not pleasant or unpleasant, just gold.
Then a voice.
‘It’s a boy about fifteen.’
He felt a flicker of recollection, not of the voice – he had no idea who this was, except that it was a girl – but of himself. A boy about fifteen. Somehow he’d forgotten that. But he had no time to ponder this. The girl was speaking again.
‘I can’t find a pulse.’
There was something in her voice that he liked: a musical quality. It took him a moment to realise that he was more struck with this than with the sudden realisation that his first conviction was right: he must be dead after all.
Another pause, and now he understood. She was speaking on a phone. The pauses were when she listened to the other person.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve turned him on his side.’
Still the musical voice. He wondered who she was, what she looked like, how old she was. Maybe she was a female equivalent of him: a girl about fifteen. She sounded about that age. Not that it mattered. He was dead anyway.
She was saying something about a tree.
‘The sycamore tree. You can’t miss it. It’s by the turning to Havensmouth.’ Silence, then, ‘No, I didn’t manage it.’
Manage what? he wondered, but she quickly answered this.
‘I tried. I did mouth to mouth and pumped his chest but nothing worked.’
Silence again. He listened to it, aware of the girl close by, though all he saw in this golden sea was her shadow floating upon it. There was nothing human about it at all, just the trace of her voice, which hung strangely over it. Then he caught a new sound, somewhere above him.
Birdsong.
One bird, as far as he could tell, but a virtuoso singer. It rippled through its song and he listened, confusion cascading through him. Somewhere he sensed memories flooding too, but they were memories without definition: words and pictures that moved too fast. He clung to the song of the bird.
Bird, he told himself. The girl spoke.
‘Can you hear it?’
He wished she’d stop talking on that wretched phone.
‘Can you hear it?’
A change in the voice, a new direction. She was speaking to him.
‘You said, “Bird”. Can you hear it?’
He listened to the song, aware of the movement of gold, the clearing of the haze, the sudden heaviness within himself. He peered through the shifting light, searching for the strange form, and there it was – something of a paradox: dark and bright at the same time, more a ghost than a girl.
‘Can you see me?’ she said.
But he’d lost her. She was enveloped in gold once more. She spoke again.
‘He’s alive. I heard him say something.’
The phone again.
‘I definitely heard him,’ she said.
A long silence this time. Even the bird was quiet. He tried to think, tried to understand, but there was nothing in his mind that made sense. A girl about fifteen, he told himself. A girl about fifteen.
‘He’s doing it again,’ she said suddenly. ‘I heard him. He said something about a girl. Like he’s talking to someone.’
But this only filled him with more confusion. He hadn’t heard himself speak, hadn’t felt his mouth move, hadn’t felt – couldn’t feel – any part of him move. As far as he was concerned, he was a thought, nothing more. A memory of a boy. The only human voice he’d heard so far was the girl’s, and here it was again.
‘He definitely said something about a girl.’ Another pause, then, ‘No, still no pulse. I’ve been checking all the time I’ve been on the phone.’
No, you haven’t, he thought. I’d have felt you.
‘There!’ said the girl. ‘He just spoke again. I heard him. He said, “No, you haven’t”. He’s trying to communicate.’ Another change in the direction of the voice and he knew she was speaking to him again. ‘Can you hear me?’
Yes, yes, he thought, and this time he heard his own words, ‘Yes, yes.’
‘I knew you could.’ Still the musical voice. ‘Can you feel this?’
Something warm, something soft.
‘Hand,’ he muttered.
‘Yes. My hand round your wrist. Try and open your eyes.’
He’d thought they were open, but no, she was right. He must have closed them without remembering it. He opened them again. Gold broke upon him still, shadows merging on shadows, and here was the girl’s form again, or some part of it. He still couldn’t make out her face or features, just the spectral shape of her as she leaned over him.
But now his other senses were starting to work. He could feel warm air brushing his skin, dusk falling over him. He could see the outline of a tree, hear the sound of the bird high up. He felt a rush of excitement. He was going to live. He was going to pull through.
Then everything changed.
First the pain. It tore through him like a racing tide, scattering thought, hope, feeling; then the darkness, snuffing out what was left. He heard the girl screaming into the phone.
‘Quick! I’m losing him again!’
More pain, more darkness, more screams from the girl.
‘What do I do? What do I do?’
But there was nothing she could do. He knew that. More pain – harsh, relentless spasms that seemed to reach every part of him – then suddenly they ceased, and he felt a new sensation: a queasy tremor deep inside him.
Fusing the supernatural with the terrifyingly real is what Tim Bowler does best and Bloodchild is a perfect example of the genre he has made his own.’
Telegraph
‘Contemporary and action-packed, Bowler has produced another psychological thriller that twists until the last page.’
Daily Mail
‘The visionary, the numinous, the unexplained – that is the soul of this book, and that is what distinguishes the best of Bowler’s work’
The Guardian
‘This thrilling fantasy and crime hybrid is a gripping read from start to finish. The action sequences are expertly paced and the vivid imagery creates a nightmarish quality with almost cinematic realism.’
Books for Keeps
‘Reminded me of Stephen King at his best. It’s convincing, atmospheric and creepy.’
Charlie Higson, The Mail on Sunday
‘I LOVED Bloodchild…Gripping, challenging, beautifully written, original . . an exceptional read.’
Askews Library Services
‘Tim Bowler needs no introduction; here is another taut thriller in the brilliant style familiar to his readers.’
School Librarian Journal
‘This thriller is hard to resist.’
Carousel
‘Rarely in my life have I been so intimately able to share in the experiences of a character…Truly a compulsive read from a master storyteller.’
Gavin Musselwhite, Waterstone’s
‘Incredibly atmospheric of time and place with characters that draw you in, Bowler is the true master of the teenage psychological thriller.’
Lovereading
‘A tense, fast-paced, atmospheric thriller where neither protagonist nor reader can be sure in whom to trust. Bowler at his absolute best.’
Bookfest
‘Absorbing fantasy thriller… I love Tim Bowler. His writing is direct and forceful and ratchets up tension and emotional response with utter fearlessness…I read it barely breathing.’
The BookBag
‘Bloodchild holds readers in its vice-like grip from the very first page….an unmissable, chilling, thrilling page-turner.’
South China Morning Post
‘Like many of my previous novels, Bloodchild focuses on mystical and psychological issues. The character of Will grew quickly. He had a powerful voice in my head right from the start. He is a kind of prophet, a boy misunderstood by others and very much on the fringes of social acceptance, and in the beginning I wasn’t sure I liked him very much. As the story developed, however, I came to see that for all his awkwardness, he is a deeply brave individual, beset on all sides as he struggles to regain his memory and discover the hideous secret that infects the small town of Havensmouth. But Bloodchild is not just Will’s story. It is a complex book that works on many levels. On one level it is a boy’s quest to right a wrong. On another it’s a story about memory and self, truth and illusion, and the way society acts towards those it does not understand. There is bigotry, hatred and violence in Havensmouth and Will has to deal with all three. But there is courage, too, and compassion, and love – parental love, romantic love, the love of friends, even of those from another dimension. And there is hope. Bloodchild is a story about the search for hope in a place where it has been lost. Will may seem an unlikely person to kindle this in such a community, but in the figure of a small boy – the Bloodchild of the title – he finds both the talisman and the catalyst he needs to make hope a possibility. It is this small boy who turns Will into a hero, and it is in fighting for the boy that Will finds that in a wider sense he has also been fighting for those who have been wronged, for the community as a whole, and ultimately for himself.’
Tim Bowler
‘I’m dying,’ said the voice.
Dusty clutched the phone. She had no idea who this was. A boy about her age, by the sound of him – fifteen, sixteen, maybe a bit older.
‘Is anyone there?’ he muttered.
His voice was slurred and angry. She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to midnight. She’d answered the phone at once, thinking it would be Dad ringing to say he’d been held up by the snow but was on his way back. The last thing she needed was this boy.
‘Is anyone there?’ he said.
‘Who are you?’
The only answer was a cough.
‘And how did you get this number?’ she said. ‘We’re ex-directory.’
Another cough but this time the boy answered.
‘I just made up a number and dialled it.’
She frowned. This had to be a prank. Friday night, New Year’s Day. Some boy messing around with his mates. If she listened hard enough, she’d probably catch the sound of them sniggering in the background. But all she heard was the laboured breathing of the boy at the other end of the line.
She thought of Dad out in Beckdale on his date. She’d been enjoying having the house to herself for the first time in weeks, especially after all the trouble it had taken her to get him to go, but now she wished he’d hurry back.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ mumbled the boy. ‘I said I’m dying.’
She knew that wasn’t true. If the boy was really in danger, he’d hardly make up a number and ring it. He’d dial 999.
‘You need to ring the police,’ she said.
‘I don’t want the police.’
‘An ambulance, then.’
‘I don’t want an ambulance.’
‘But you said you’re dying.’
‘I am dying.’
‘Then you need to ring – ‘
‘I don’t need to ring anyone. I said I’m dying. I didn’t say I wanted to live.’
There was a silence between them which she didn’t like.
‘I’ve taken an overdose,’ he said.
She bit her lip, unsure what to believe and reluctant to be drawn any further into this boy’s world. Maybe he was telling the truth; maybe he wasn’t. But whatever his problem was, it was for other people to sort out.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said.
‘You can. I just want a friendly voice. Someone to talk to as I slip away.’
‘You need the Samaritans, not me. I’ll get you their number.’
‘I don’t need the Samaritans,’ said the boy. ‘I need you.’
This was getting a little creepy. All her instincts told her to put the phone down. But before she could do so, he spoke again.
‘How old are you?’
‘None of your business.’
‘You sound about fifteen.’
She said nothing. His guess was spot on and probably a fluke but it was still disconcerting.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘That’s none of your business either.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because it’s none of your business.’
‘My name’s Josh.’
She squeezed the phone tight. Josh – of all the names to choose. The boy spoke again.
‘I said my name’s Josh.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she said.
She prayed she was right. She didn’t want this boy to be called Josh. She didn’t want anyone to be called Josh. There was a silence, then the boy said, ‘You’re right. It’s not. But you can call me Josh if you want to. I mean, just to give me a name.’
‘I’m not interested in giving you a name.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The boy paused. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Give me a name I can call you. Any name you like.’
Again her instincts screamed at her to put down the phone. This stuff about names made her feel vulnerable, especially all the talk about Josh. She started to wonder about this boy. He was a complete stranger to her, yet he had picked out the one name that mattered most to her. Maybe it was coincidence. Or maybe he knew who she was and where she lived and was watching the house right now.
She ran her eye over the lounge. It was the only room in the house with the light on at the moment and if he was watching from the lane, he’d almost certainly be staring at this very window. She was glad that the curtains were drawn across.
But it didn’t make her feel safer. Thorn Cottage was a lonely house all on its own. With the outskirts of Beckdale some miles to the right and nothing to the left save Stonewell Park and Kilbury Moor, and beyond that the lake and fells, there was little protection here.
‘I’m not watching the window,’ said the boy suddenly. ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t know where you live.’
She shivered. It didn’t seem possible that he could speak the very fears that were running through her mind. But the next thing he said only deepened her unease.
‘Daisy?’
She stiffened.
‘What did you say?’
‘Daisy. I’m trying to guess your name. It’s something like Daisy.’
She swallowed hard and again found herself glancing towards the curtains.
‘I told you,’ said the boy. ‘I’m not watching the window.’
She was scared now, really scared. This boy seemed to know everything she was doing and thinking. She tried to be rational. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult for him. He must know a young girl would be frightened in a situation like this; must realise she’d be wondering where he was and probably glancing at the window. But the name Josh; and then…Daisy. It wasn’t right but it was close.
‘I’m not called Daisy,’ she said slowly.
‘I didn’t think you were,’ said the boy. ‘But it’s something like that, isn’t it?’
She didn’t answer.
‘What about…Tomboy?’ he said. ‘Can I call you that? I know it’s kind of weird but you sound like a bit of a tomboy.’
She gasped. Now it was serious. Only one person in the world had ever called her Tomboy. It was his own pet name for her, and too unusual to guess. This boy knew who she was – and much more.
‘Where’s Josh?’ she said coldly.
‘I don’t know anyone called Josh.’
‘Where is he? Tell me.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Josh.’
‘You said the name Josh a moment ago.’
‘I made it up. Like I made up your phone number. And the name Daisy.’
‘And Tomboy.’
‘Yeah. Why? Has someone else called you that?’
She didn’t answer; didn’t want to answer. Suspicions were now racing through her. This boy knew far more than he was admitting. She had to find out what she could. A face drifted into her mind: a face she hadn’t seen for two years but which haunted her every day, sometimes every hour, sometimes – it seemed – every moment of her life.
‘Where’s Josh?’ she said again.
‘I told you. I don’t know anyone called Josh.’
‘You do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you just said – ‘
‘I don’t care what I just said.’ The boy sounded tetchy now. ‘I don’t have any control over that, OK? I just say what I say. I don’t know where it comes from.’
She tried to calm herself. She knew she had to be careful. She had to probe this boy but if she pushed him too hard, he’d hang up.
‘Tell me why you chose those names,’ she said.
But the boy didn’t answer. Instead she heard him retching at the other end of the line. She listened, her mind riddled with confusion. If this was acting, it was pretty convincing. The retching went on for what seemed a long time, then suddenly stopped.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
No response, just another sound, which she recognised at once.
‘You’re drinking something,’ she said. ‘What is it? Water?’
‘Cheap plonk,’ came the answer. ‘Tastes like shit.’
She heard a rattling noise.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘What what?’
‘That sound.’
‘This?’
And she heard the rattling sound again.
‘Yeah.’
‘Bottle of pills,’ said the boy. ‘Think I might have gobbed up the last lot. So I’m taking some more. If I can get the top off the bloody thing.’
‘Listen – ‘ she started.
But the boy wasn’t listening. He seemed to have put the phone down and was struggling to open the bottle of pills. She could hear him swearing to himself as he wrenched at the top. Then she heard a grunt of satisfaction, followed by more silence.
‘Are you there?’ she said.
No answer.
She tried to think. She was convinced now that the boy had taken an overdose and was even at this moment swallowing more pills. But she was also convinced that he knew something about Josh. She had to glean what she could from him. But first she had to save his life, and that meant finding out where he was. With any luck he’d tell her. It was just possible this wasn’t a genuine suicide attempt but a cry for help.
‘Are you there?’ she said again.
Still no answer. She took the phone over to the window and peeped round the side of the curtain. Everything glistened with snow. The latest fall had deepened the previous layer by several inches and it was now a thick blanket, still virgin by the look of it.
She glanced to the right. No sign of Dad coming back from Beckdale, just the deserted lane stretching away into the night. She looked to the left and followed the same lane past the broad turning area outside the house and on to where it narrowed again and finally ended at the gate into Stonewell Park. No one there either; just whiteness, stillness, emptiness. Suddenly she heard the boy’s voice again.
‘Daisy?’
‘Don’t call me Daisy,’ she said. ‘It’s not my name, OK? Now listen – ‘
‘No, you listen.’ The boy’s voice had changed again. It was more drowsy yet somehow more forceful too. ‘Listen…I haven’t got much time…and there’s something I want to say. I…I’m sorry if I scared you.’
‘You didn’t scare me.’
‘I did.’ The boy’s breathing sounded heavier. ‘I did scare you. I know I did. And I know I’m…I’m still scaring you.’
She said nothing. But she knew he was right.
‘So I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. I’m really sorry…whoever you are…’
‘My name’s Dusty.’
She hated telling him. It made her feel more vulnerable than ever. But she knew she had to take the risk. She had to bond with this boy somehow if she was to find out where he was.
‘It’s a nice name,’ he said.
‘What’s yours?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘You must have a name.’
‘I’ve got lots of names.’
‘So give me one of them. I’ve given you mine.’
‘Too late for names now.’
There was a finality in the boy’s voice that chilled her.
‘Dusty?’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks for not putting the phone down.’
‘Tell me where Josh is.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Josh.’
‘You do. I know you do.’
The boy didn’t answer.
‘Where is he?’ she said.
The boy spoke, but not to answer her question.
‘These trees,’ he murmured. ‘They’re so beautiful.’
‘Tell me about Josh. Please tell me about Josh.’
‘So beautiful.’ The boy’s voice was fading. ‘I’m glad I’m dying near trees.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because you’ll send an ambulance and they might save my life.’
She shuddered. This was no cry for help. This was a farewell.
‘Tell me where you are,’ she urged him.
‘Don’t want to.’
‘Please.’
‘Don’t want to.’
‘But you’ll die.’
‘Want to die. Must die.’
‘But why?’
‘Too much pain. Just want it to go away.’
Dusty’s mind was racing. There had to be some way of working out where the boy was. He’d talked about trees. But that didn’t help much. There were loads of places with trees round here. And there was no guarantee the boy was even phoning from the Beckdale area. He hadn’t said he was. He could be anywhere in the country, even abroad. Suddenly she caught a new sound at the other end of the phone.
Something metallic, a kind of groan, like some heavy object moving on a hinge; maybe a pub sign swinging in the wind, or an iron gate opening. She listened. There was something familiar about it. It was a sound she’d heard recently. She was sure of it.
The sound ceased. She listened for it again, her thoughts running fast. The boy was somewhere near. She sensed it. If she could just hear the sound again, she might be able to place it. But instead she heard the boy’s voice – distant, detached, as though speaking to himself. Yet his words were for her; and they shook her to the core.
‘I’m sorry, little Dusty. Goodbye, little Dusty.’
She trembled. It wasn’t possible. Not those very words. She remembered the last time she had heard them. She remembered gripping the phone with all her might, just as she was doing now. She remembered standing by her bedroom window watching the sun setting over Kilbury Moor. She remembered the feeling of a day dissolving, and a life dissolving with it. She remembered the small words in her ear, the last her brother had ever spoken to her.
‘Goodbye, little Dusty,’ said the boy.
‘Josh!’ she screamed.
No answer came back. All she heard before the line went dead was the strange metallic groan again. But this time recollection came flooding with it. Stonewell Park…the trees…the children’s playground…the swing! She’d sat on it only yesterday when she went walking in the park with Dad. She’d even swung on it – and heard that very noise. If she was right, the boy was barely two hundred yards away.
She threw down the phone, rushed into the hall and pulled on her coat and boots. Then she picked up her mobile, switched it on and scribbled a note to Dad on the pad.
Gone out. Mobile on. Back soon. Dusty x
She prayed she’d be back before he read it. He’d be apoplectic if he saw this. But there was nothing she could about it now. She had to find this boy, and quickly. She stepped out of the house, slammed the front door behind her, and raced off into the night.
‘An engrossing, tantalising psychological and supernatural thriller. Like all good books, it manages in the end to be both satisfying and richly ambiguous. Read it alone, at night. Wrap up well, and don’t forget to strap on your mental snow-shoes.’
Mal Peet, Guardian
‘From its highly-strung opening, the tension scarcely lets up….Bowler has written a taut psychological thriller that ends satisfyingly while leaving a lingering sense of mystery.’
Observer
‘A brilliant book. That mix of reality with the ethereal and mystical is tricky to carry off successfully but Tim Bowler’s extraordinary writing is a triumph. Unrelenting drama: brilliant, gripping . . . a terrific achievement.’
Chris Brown, School Librarian Association
‘Tim Bowler is master of the psychological thriller and teens won’t find a more atmospherically gripping opener than that of Frozen Fire…and the tension never lets up.’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Bowler pursues philosophical truths that go beyond logic. What absolutely drives this novel forward, though, is its gasp-inducing chapter ends, and its capacity to make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.’
Sunday Times
‘Tim Bowler’s new novel for teenagers provides a haunting story that hooks from the moment his young heroine picks up the phone on page one….a compulsive and exciting tale, brilliantly paced and packed with twists and turns that keep the pages flickering by.’
Big Issue
‘At the core of Frozen Fire is a creature not so much of flesh but fire and ice, able to penetrate the minds and feelings of others with excruciating insight – an empathy not unlike the writer’s. Such a mystical figure might seem pretentious or simply unbelievable, but the novel is anchored by the headlong excitement of the plot and characters whose complexities are rooted in our fractured and brutal society.’
Books for Keeps
‘Non-stop tension and utterly compelling are the hallmarks of a Tim Bowler thriller; so much so, that you’ll be drawn into the characters and the story from the very start. He is pre-eminent in the field of psychological thrillers in the teenage market – no one does it better. If Frozen Fire is too traumatic, then leave it for a while and come back to it when you’re ready. It will have been worth the wait.’
Lovereading
‘A powerful psychological thriller…Tim Bowler’s finest work to date.’
School Librarian Journal
‘A chilling mystery. Eerie supernatural powers and the menace of a mob bent on vengeance are cleverly counterpointed in this spine-tingling page-turner.’
Guardian Teenage Picks
‘Ice-hot thrills, atmospheric and unforgettable, Frozen Fire will cast you in its icy spell and keep you gripped to the very last page….an amazing new book.’
Make Time for Books
‘Tim Bowler consistently produces some of the most readable and original fiction available to teenagers today; and Frozen Fire is no exception. This is an extremely atmospheric novel with beautifully written prose and a compelling plot.’
Askews Library Review
‘Frozen Fire is an edge-of-the-seat tribute to Tim Bowler’s ability to grip young minds.’
Times Educational Supplement
‘A thought-provoking read as well as a really good yarn.’
Carousel
‘Frozen Fire is an experience, not just a good read.’
Amazon Review
‘Bowler’s writing chills.’
Booklist
‘Frozen Fire will leave readers captivated.’
Horn Book
‘Frozen Fire took me two years to write and many more to think about. I cannot trace all its sources. It draws from Vedanta, from Quantum Theory, from philosophers, mystics and poets I have read and loved, and of course from my own life. But most of all Frozen Fire is a story. It’s a story about Dusty and the mysteries she longs to solve. In the beginning she sees only one – the disappearance of her brother – but the mysteries grow, and, as they do so, the danger around her grows too. By the end she is confronting not just death but the extinction of all she has ever known. Yet in spite of this, I believe that the story is one of hope. Anyone who has looked at the stars and wondered where we come from will identify with Dusty’s yearning to understand. Her loss of self is not annihilation but a vision of universality. Her deepest mystery is ours too, and we can share her journey.’
Tim Bowler
They came in the night in a long, black boat. They rowed out of the harbour at the south end of the island, past the breakwater, past the cottages and on towards the bluff at the north-eastern tip, still hidden from view in the foggy murk. They pulled in silence, their hands wet and cold in the chill before dawn, the only sounds their grunting breaths, the grinding of oars and the murmur of water against the bow as it cut a path through the milky sea.
The breeze was cool and no longer smelt of summer. They pulled on, none speaking, and the rocky shore slipped slowly by, just visible through the gloom. More wind came, more mist, great clouds of it now rolling in from the north. They rowed on, their eyes on the sea, the shore, the grey haze, anything but each other.
At last they saw the bluff ahead, fog swirling around it like smoke. They gave the outlying rocks plenty of room, then brought the boat round into the cove at the top of the island. They stopped for a moment to muffle the oars, then set off again, past the rocky scar at the north-western point and away from the island itself. All sense of the land was gone now. There was only mist and sea, and themselves. They rowed slowly, watching, listening.
From somewhere in the mist came a deep, mournful cry.
They stopped. It came again: a long, eerie moan, no human cry, nor that of any normal creature. They felt a swell in the water, a movement far down. The blades of the oars hung dripping. The cry came again, the same unearthly moan. It seemed to well up from the sea itself. But it sounded further off this time.
They rowed hurriedly on, a panicky new vigour to their strokes, but now the wind had picked up and the surface of the sea was rippling with misty life. They drove the boat on, searching the darkness beyond the bow, and suddenly there it was – the great rock rising fifty feet above them, stony teeth around its base.
More mist rolled in, blocking the rock from view, but they had their bearings now and rowed on towards it. The wind freshened further; the swell grew greater. The mist parted overhead and they caught a glimpse of the moon, the first they had had since setting out. It was a cold moon, a dead, distant thing. But here, too, was the rock.
They could see the white water at the base where the seas washed over the teeth. They could see the gap that led between them to the tiny haven under the side of the rock. They entered the raging water, wrestled with the eddies that threatened to pluck the oars from them, then suddenly they were through and inside the sanctuary.
They moored the boat and started to make their way along the twisting ledge that spiralled up to the summit of the rock. Below them the sea moved and breathed like a fretful beast. They reached the summit and peered over the flat table of rock. The fog was so dense here they could barely see more than a few feet ahead. They took a few steps forward, then stopped, their eyes searching around them.
But all they saw was darkness and mist.
They linked arms and started to inch their way across the top of the rock. Nothing at first but the clear flat floor, then, as they neared the southernmost point, a rougher, more broken surface: potholes, cracks, fissures. They slowed down, aware of the edge somewhere just ahead.
There it was, and closer than they had realised. They stopped, clutching each other tight. From below came the heaving of the sea, a deep, unsettling sound. They turned and made their way back across the surface of the rock. Then suddenly the mist parted and they saw the man at the northernmost end. He was utterly still, sitting on a stump of stone. But his eyes looked straight into theirs.
They pulled the clubs from inside their belts and rushed forward. The man did not move, did not speak. The first blow knocked him to the side. The second felled him. They crowded round with mad shrieks and set about him with their clubs. He soon stopped twitching but they carried on even so until they were spent. Then they stood back, breathing hard, and looked down at the body.
It lay there unmoving in a sea of blood.
They stared at it for a long time, spitting on it one by one. Then they bent down, picked it up and flung it over the edge. It cannoned into the water with a splash and vanished from view. They watched for a while, searching the space where it had fallen, but all they saw was foam.
From deep in the mist came the long, unearthly cry.
‘What was that noise?’ said Dad from the cockpit. ‘Did you hear it?’
‘Yes,’ said Mum.
‘A kind of weird cry.’
‘I heard it.’
‘What do you think it was?’
‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘But let’s hope whatever made it isn’t interested in us.’
Kit listened to their voices from down in the cabin. He was lying, not in his usual pipecot up in the forepeak, but in Dad’s bunk with a blanket over him. He was supposed to be sleeping; and he had been sleeping. But he’d heard the cry, too. It had woken him from his dream. There was a long silence, broken only by the shiver of sails and the ripple of water against the hull. Then Dad spoke again.
‘Wind’s picking up.’
‘Maybe it’ll blow away some of the mist,’ said Mum.
‘Let’s hope so. Can you ease off the jib a bit?’
‘OK.’
Kit frowned, unwilling to doze off again. The dream that had fallen so fitfully upon him since he came below to sleep had been horribly disturbing. But what was more disturbing still was that he had had the same dream three times already on this voyage; and each time it had felt more real than the time before.
He rolled over onto his back, enjoying the extra space of Dad’s bunk but little else; then he saw his father watching him through the open hatchway. Dad smiled and called down to him.
‘Don’t get any ideas about nicking my bunk on a regular basis. I’m only letting you have it this time because I’m feeling kind.’
‘Don’t want it on a regular basis,’ Kit called back. ‘Might catch something.’
Dad gave a chuckle, then Mum’s face appeared in the hatchway.
‘Kit?’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to be sleeping.’
‘I was but that weird cry woke me. What do you think it was?’
‘Don’t know. But nothing to worry about, I’m sure.’
‘OK.’ He yawned. ‘Mum?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I had that dream again.’
Mum’s face softened. ‘It won’t happen, Kit.’
‘It might.’
‘It won’t. I promise.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m cleverer than you.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you reckon that, then?’
‘I’m older and wiser.’
‘Older, yeah. I’ll give you that. By miles.’
‘Not by miles, Kit.’
‘By miles!’ He snorted. ‘I’m only fifteen. You’re at least a hundred and forty.’
‘Give or take the odd century.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I meant two hundred and forty.’
She laughed but was quickly serious again. ‘It’ll be all right, Kit,’ she said, and moved back to her former position in the cockpit.
He closed his eyes but even now found himself reliving the dream: the restless water, the dark shape moving through it; the clear sense that he was drowning. He felt a tightness round his heart and opened his eyes again. This was crazy. It was only a dream. Mum was right. It wouldn’t happen.
He rubbed his chest for a while with the flat of his hand, then sat up, put his clothes on and climbed up to the cockpit. Mum made a space for him between her and Dad. He sat down and looked about him. Windflower was still reaching on starboard tack as she had been when he first went below, but everything else looked different now that the fog had come down.
‘Sure you’ve had enough sleep?’ said Dad.
‘I’m all right.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I’ve had plenty of rest. I’ve been down there for six hours.’
‘But you weren’t sleeping all that time,’ said Mum.
Kit looked round at her.
‘Have you two been spying on me?’
‘Dead right we have,’ she said. ‘And we reckon you only slept a couple of hours in all that time. And that wasn’t proper sleep either because of your bad dream.’
He said nothing.
‘So what were you thinking of all the time you were awake?’ she said.
‘This and that.’
‘I know what that means,’ said Dad. ‘It means mind your own business. OK, we will.’
‘It doesn’t mean that. It means….’
But in truth he didn’t really know what it meant. And he didn’t know what he’d been thinking about down in the cabin. All he knew for certain was that he’d been worrying.
Maybe it was because this was Windflower’s last voyage. Now that Dad was officially bankrupt, she was going to have to be sold along with everything else when they returned. But they’d promised themselves that her last voyage would be a proper one, not just coastal stuff but a real adventure. And so it had been, with weeks and weeks of almost non-stop sailing, most of it out of sight of land. They’d loved every moment of it, but the summer holiday was almost at an end now; and so, too, was the voyage, though they were still a good ten days from home.
But Kit knew it wasn’t just the imminent end of the voyage that was bothering him. It was something else, something that had started a couple of days ago when the first of the dreams came. He’d felt frightened, not just by the thought of drowning, but by something in the sea itself. He’d never felt this way before but there was something strange about the waters round here. They were unfamiliar, to be sure, but that in itself couldn’t account for his fear. Most of the voyage had been through unfamiliar waters – that was the whole point of the trip – and he hadn’t had a problem. Until now. And he didn’t like this night fog either. He looked round at Dad.
‘Where are we on the chart?’
Dad glanced at Mum, then back at Kit.
‘We’re not sure,’ he said slowly. ‘The compass is playing up.’
‘What?’
‘It’s been playing up for quite a while.’
‘Quite a while?’
‘Several hours.’
Kit stared into the binnacle and saw the compass spinning wildly.
‘Have you tried the spare compasses?’ he said.
‘Yeah. They’re all doing the same thing.’
‘So we could be anywhere?’
‘Yeah,’ said Dad. ‘But we should be safe. The nearest land is at least forty miles away by my estimation. And we’re not crossing any shipping lanes here.’
‘But you don’t know how far off course we’ve gone in this fog.’
‘That’s true. So we need to be cautious.’ Dad glanced over the sails. ‘I think we’ll reef her a bit more. The wind’s picking up again.
It was indeed and the seas were growing larger, too. Ordinarily Windflower thrived in rough weather but Kit knew that Dad was right. It would be foolish to go racing through the night, especially when there was fog and they weren’t sure of their position.
‘Would it be safer to heave to?’ suggested Mum.
‘Might be an idea,’ said Dad. ‘But let’s shorten sail anyway. She’ll be more comfortable.’
‘OK. Jib first?’
‘Yep.’
Mum eased off the jib sheet, then pulled in the reefing line.
‘Enough?’
‘Can’t see,’ muttered Dad, squinting towards the bow. ‘This fog’s getting worse. I’m going forward. Take the helm, Sarah, can you?’
Mum took the helm and Dad climbed forward to the jib, his body turning to a grey shadow as the mist engulfed him.
‘Jim!’ called Mum. ‘Be careful!’
‘I’m all right!’ came the answer, then, ‘Pull in a bit more!’
Kit took the reefing line and pulled it in.
‘That’s enough!’ called Dad, and a moment later he reappeared. Kit felt a sense of relief to have his father clearly in view again. Dad stopped by the mast and clung to it, balancing himself against the heel of the boat.
‘How does she feel?’ he called.
‘Bit heavy on the helm,’ answered Mum.
‘She’ll be better when I’ve taken more off the mainsail.’
‘OK.’
‘Any chance of fixing us a bite to eat?’ said Dad, already bent over the reefing gear. ‘Something we can nibble as we go along? I’m starving.’
‘I’ll make us some sandwiches,’ said Mum. ‘Kit? Can you take the helm?’
‘Sure.’
‘Just keep her as she is.’
‘OK.’
Kit took the tiller from Mum and sat to windward, hunched against the cool air. Mum disappeared below and he soon heard the sound of her busying about the galley. Up at the mast, Dad was trying to ratchet the sail round the boom. Suddenly a squall struck. Windflower heeled sharply to port, her lee rail under. Dad clung to the mast and bellowed at him.
‘Ease off the mainsheet a bit!’
Kit was already doing so but it made little difference. The squall was growing stronger.
‘More!’ shouted Dad. ‘Get her on an even keel if you can!’
He eased the sheet out further and Windflower steadied for a moment. But now more squalls were coming in, and with them great clouds of mist. He saw Dad furiously working the ratchet but the boat was heeling dangerously as the gusts swept over her.
Something hard knocked against the hull. Neither Mum nor Dad seemed to hear it but Kit caught the sound. Then he saw a piece of wood drifting past to leeward. It was barely a foot long and in a second it would be gone. Yet in that second he saw what it really was.
A tiny carved boat.
On an impulse he scrambled to the port side of the cockpit, switched the tiller to his right hand and reached out with his left to pick the model up. His hand closed round it; then he froze. Holding on to the carved boat was another hand, a hand reaching up through the sea itself; and below that, an arm, a body, a face, staring up at him through the foam.
And then it was gone, swept past and lost in the wake.
He heard Dad yelling at him from the mast.
‘Kit! What are you playing at? She’s coming up into the wind! Get her back on course!’
He struggled back to the windward side of the cockpit and wrenched at the tiller. But his mind was in turmoil now. All he could think of was the watery eyes staring up at him. Dimly he realised that Windflower was still shooting round to starboard into the wind, that he was somehow clutching the little carved boat, that Mum was hurrying up from the cabin, that Dad was shouting at him to bear away and get back on course. In a daze he stood up and yanked the tiller towards him. Windflower started to bear away to port, bear away to port, bear away to port.
‘Not too far!’ shouted Dad. ‘Straighten up or you’ll gybe her! Sarah! Get the helm off him! Quick!’
From up in the bows came a crash.
Windflower gave a lurch and skewed round to port, throwing the mainsail across in a violent gybe. The impact and the swinging boom jolted Kit back to the present but the movement of the boat still flung him off balance and he fell with a thud against the coaming. Mum rushed over to him but he pushed her aside and scrambled to his feet again, his eyes on the mountainous shape towering over them.
He’d run the boat into a rock, a huge, murderous thing. But it was the teeth at the base that were the greatest danger. Windflower was caught between a score of them and with the wind now dead astern of her and the sails still full she was pounding against the sharp tips as the swell dropped her. She could break up at any moment.
‘Sarah!’ roared Dad, now clinging to a shroud. ‘Port your helm! See if you can bring the bows round to starboard! But watch out! She’ll probably gybe again! I’ll try and push us off! Kit! Dive into the forepeak and see if we’re shipping any water but come straight back!’
‘Dad!’ he spluttered. ‘I’m sorry, I – ‘
‘Never mind that now! Go and check below!’
He climbed down into the cabin and hurried forward, tears streaming down his cheeks. If Windflower foundered, he’d never forgive himself – and losing the boat wasn’t the only thing that could happen. There was something far worse than that. But he didn’t dare think of it. He found he was still clutching the little carved boat and flung it under his pipecot. Then he crawled into the bows.
It was worse than he’d expected. One of the planks was sprung and a steady flow of water was oozing in. Another break could open her right up. He hurried back to the cockpit to find the situation worse than ever. Dad was on the foredeck, desperately trying to push the bows off the rocks with the boathook, but the pressure of the wind on the sails made it impossible.
‘Jim!’ called Mum. ‘You’ve got to take the mainsail down! It’s keeping us stuck here!’
Dad ran back to the mast and fumbled with the halyard and topping lift. ‘Mind your heads!’ he yelled, and a moment later the mainsail came shivering down. He seized the boathook again and pushed, and this time the bows eased back a fraction from the rocks.
But now, in spite of Mum’s efforts at the helm, the wind was forcing the stern round to starboard. If they didn’t do something quickly, the boat would be broadside on to the rock with the whole of her starboard side exposed to the teeth. Dad looked quickly about him, then bawled at Mum.
‘Sarah! We’ll try and get her off the other way! Let go the port jibsheet and pull in the starboard one! And helm hard to starboard!’
‘OK!’ shouted Mum.
The jib flew out, then tautened and filled on the other side as Mum pulled in the starboard sheet. The bows started to move round to port away from the teeth. But the stern was still swinging to starboard and Kit saw to his horror that the boat did not have enough way on her to pull clear.
‘My God,’ said Mum under her breath. ‘The stern’s going to hit.’ She threw a glance at Kit. ‘Are we shipping water?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell your dad.’
‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘One of the planks is sprung up in the bows! We’re shipping water!’
‘How fast?’
‘Not fast yet but steady!’
‘Go back and stuff all the mattresses and pillows you can find against the leak and hold them there! I’ll be down the moment I can!’
Kit scrambled below again, grabbed the mattresses and pillows from the bunks, and crawled with them into the forepeak. The water was coming in faster now. He thrust the pillows over the leak, then the mattresses on top, and held them in place. But it was no good. The water was still seeping in around them. There was a sudden, rending crash from the stern, followed by a shout from Mum.
‘Jim! The rudder’s gone! I can’t steer!’
Kit felt the tears start again. This was the end. They couldn’t stop the water coming in and they wouldn’t be able to pump or bale fast enough to keep her afloat. And now the stern had crunched into the teeth and the rudder was gone. Windflower would founder against the rock; and he was the one who had brought her here. He felt the stern lift in the swell, and hang there. He held his breath and waited for the next crash. The stern fell again.
But there was no crash. Instead a shout from Dad.
‘Roll up the jib! Roll up the jib!’
He heard the sound of the jib rolling up and wondered what was going on. If they were drifting, Dad must have decided they’d be safer without any sails set. He listened, his hands and arms now soaked as the water seeped in around the pillows and mattresses. There were no more crashes, only the lifting and dropping of the hull and the smack of the sea against the side. Suddenly the forehatch opened and he saw Dad peering down at him.
‘Kit? Is it working?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll come and take a look.’
Dad started to climb down through the forehatch.
‘What’s happening with the rock?’ said Kit.
‘The wind’s blown us past it but one of the outlying teeth messed up the rudder.’
‘So we’re drifting?’
‘Yeah.’ Dad squeezed next to him and ran his eye over the damaged plank. ‘Damn! It’s coming in faster than I feared. We’ll have to rig a fothering sail over the leak or she’ll go down. And we’ll have to be quick about it.’ He grabbed one of the sail bags. ‘We’ll use the storm jib,’ he said, pulling it out. ‘It’s thicker than the other sails. Pass me those coils of rope.’
Kit handed him the ropes.
‘Right,’ said Dad. ‘Now come with me on deck but be very careful. The boat’s pitching like hell. And put your life jacket on.’
‘There isn’t time for that.’
‘Just do as you’re told.’
Dad wasn’t wearing a life jacket and neither was Mum but Kit said nothing. Dad climbed up through the forehatch with the sail and ropes. Kit put his lifejacket on, then joined his father on the foredeck.
Dad was right about the sea. It was more lumpy than before and the wind had risen further in the last few minutes. The darkness was clearing a little and so was the mist, but visibility was still poor. The rock couldn’t be more than fifty yards upwind of them but all they could see of it now was the foaming white of the teeth that had savaged Windflower. And here she was, rocking rudderless in the swell. Mum clambered across from the cockpit.
‘Are you going to try a fothering sail?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘But there’s no telling if it’ll work. You’d better put some water and provisions into a couple of kitbags. We may have to abandon ship and take to the dinghy.’
‘OK.’
Kit glanced at the dinghy in her place between the cabin top and the mast. Splinters was a sturdy little boat but she was hardly suitable for a voyage in rough weather with three people and a stack of provisions. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Mum hurried off and Dad turned back to him.
‘Now listen, Kit. You’re to keep one hand on the boat at all times, you understand?’
‘OK.’
Dad knelt down, balancing himself as best he could on the shifting foredeck, and tied the ropes to the corners of the storm jib.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
They stretched out over the edge of the bow, waves smashing up into their faces, and spread the sail across the leak. Windflower bucked suddenly as a larger wave rolled in.
‘Keep hold of the boat!’ yelled Dad. ‘Don’t let go!’
Kit clung on, one hand on the sail rope, the other on the forestay. Another wave crashed in, drenching them both. He hung on and waited for his eyes to clear. When they did, he saw to his horror that Dad had been washed half over the side and was slipping into the sea.
‘Dad!’ he shouted.
He clutched at his father but missed, then heard a pounding of footsteps on the cabin roof. The next moment Mum leapt across the foredeck and threw herself onto Dad’s disappearing leg.
‘Jim!’ she yelled, struggling to pull him back. Kit let go of the forestay, sprawled across the foredeck and seized Dad round the waist, and somehow they manhandled him back onboard. He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, one hand tight round the anchor chain. Mum bent over him.
‘Jim,’ she said. ‘Jim, are you – ‘
‘I’m all right.’
‘I thought you’d – ‘
‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’ Dad rolled upright again and gave Mum’s arm a squeeze. ‘Thanks,’ he said, then turned to Kit. ‘And you, boy. Well done.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right, let’s finish this thing.’
Mum moved back but only as far as the mast, her eyes fixed on the two of them. Dad grabbed his end of the storm jib, waited for a smoother patch of sea, then nodded to Kit. ‘Now,’ he said. And they pulled the ropes tight, drawing the fothering sail back over the leak, and then made fast.
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ said Kit.
‘Don’t know,’ said Dad. ‘But we’ll soon find out.’ He turned to Mum. ‘How are you getting on with the kitbags?’
‘I was just getting started when you decided to go for a swim.’
‘Well, can you carry on with that now?’
‘OK.’
‘Put a compass in as well. I know they’re not working but put one in anyway. And a chart. And some warm clothing and waterproofs. When you’ve sorted that, get pumping. I’m going to try and rig an oar over the stern so we can steer. Kit, dive into the cabin and pass me up the sweep. Then find yourself a bucket and bale like hell.’
But Kit didn’t answer him. He was staring through a gap that had suddenly opened in the mist.
‘Dad,’ he said. ‘There’s an island.’
They stared. And there, about half a mile beyond the bow, was a small but unmistakable island. They couldn’t see it clearly yet, for though the mist had gone, some of the night still lingered. But dawn was on its way and by its spreading light they could see the outline of a hill, and cliffs, and what looked like a cove at the nearest point.
‘Come on,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll see if we can get Windflower over there. If it’s all rocks, we can’t do much for her but if there’s some kind of a beach, we might be able to run her ashore.’
They hurried to work: Mum to the kitbags, Dad to the stern locker for more ropes, Kit down to the cabin. But the hopes he had felt rising at the sight of the island fell at once. A pool of water now covered the bottom boards, filled by a steady flow from the bows. It was hard to tell whether the fothering sail was making any difference or not. He saw a plastic food box floating down towards him, and a mug, and a sponge, and some of the mattresses.
And the little carved boat.
The image that he had tried to forget came back to his mind: the body below the surface, the arm, the hand, the face, the eyes; and with that image came the other thing, the thing he had not dared to acknowledge to himself until now.
The recognition.
It made him shiver to think of it, yet there was no doubting what he had seen. He had seen the face of a man, not a boy, yet it had been a face so like his own he had felt he was looking at an older version of himself. A face drowning not just in water but in another dimension.
Mum joined him in the cabin and started collecting things for the kitbags.
‘Come on, Kit,’ she said. ‘No time to waste. Your father’s waiting for the sweep.’
The long oar was easy enough to find. It was floating right in front of him. He picked it up and steered it out through the hatchway into Dad’s waiting hands.
‘Thanks, Kit,’ said Dad. ‘Now get baling.’
Kit filled a bucket, carried it up to the cockpit and tipped the water over the side into the sea.
‘Not that way,’ said Dad, already busy lashing the oar to the horse. ‘It’ll take too long. Just tip the water straight into the cockpit. The self-draining system will get rid of it.’
‘OK.’
He hurried back, filled another bucketful and tipped it into the cockpit, and then another, and another, trying as he did so to push aside the thoughts that plagued his mind. Dad now had the steering oar in place and was testing the blade over the side. Mum had finished with the kitbags and was hard at work at the pump. To Kit’s relief, both had slipped into their lifejackets.
He went on baling, baling, baling. He was almost grateful for the monotony of it. He could hardly bear to watch what was happening and at least this gave him something mindless to do. He heard the sound of the jib being unrolled and then the sheet trimmed, and then Mum’s voice.
‘How does she feel?’
‘Sluggish,’ said Dad.
‘Is the oar working?’
‘Just about. But it’s difficult. The broken rudder’s giving us some negative drag and I keep having to compensate for it. This rolling sea doesn’t help either.’
Kit carried on baling, trying to push all thoughts from his mind save the need to clear the cabin of water. But there seemed little hope of that now. It was coming in too fast. He felt the bows plunge as Windflower drove into a trough. He waited for her to come up again but to his horror she stayed down as though locked there. He stopped baling and waited, panic filling him, then slowly, ponderously, she rose once more to the surface. As she did so, he saw a stream of water run down from the bows into the pool in which he now knelt.
‘Kit!’ called Dad.
He turned and saw his father craning over from the cockpit.
‘Nip into the bow and tell me what the leak looks like.’
Kit crawled through the water and studied the broken plank. It was obvious that the fothering sail wasn’t working very well. Water was finding its way in easily and the movement of the hull in this deep, rolling sea was clearly making things worse. He hurried back to Dad.
‘It’s coming in faster than before. The storm jib’s not making much difference.’
‘It’s the motion of the boat,’ said Dad. ‘The waves are picking us up from behind and pushing the bow down into the troughs, so the water’s getting in round the edge of the sail.’ He frowned. ‘We’ll give it a bit longer and see if we can keep the water level down enough to stay afloat. But if it gets much deeper in there, we’ll have to launch the dinghy and abandon ship. Get back to your baling. And give it everything you’ve got.’
Kit returned to the baling with all the energy he could manage. Yet the ever-increasing flow of water seemed to mock his efforts. He filled the bucket, reached up and tipped it into the self-draining cockpit; yet when he turned back to the floor of the cabin, the pool of water seemed only to have deepened. The little carved boat brushed against his legs.
‘Go away,’ he muttered to it. ‘Go away, go away.’
He picked it up and threw it into the forepeak. It reappeared at once, floating blithely back. He dipped the bucket again and tipped the contents into the cockpit, and then dipped again, and tipped again, and so it went on, as he worked to keep Windflower afloat. And as he worked, he heard Mum’s ceaseless action at the pump, and the scrape of the oar against the hull as Dad struggled to keep them on course for the island.
But Kit was sure now that they weren’t going to make it to the island. A glance through the forward cabin windows showed Windflower still some distance from it; and she was slowing by the minute. Hampered by the rolling sea, and by the water she was carrying, and by her reduced sail, she was moving more and more awkwardly.
He knew there was little else they could do. If Dad hoisted the mainsail, the boat would speed up but she’d also ship a skinful of water and maybe go down within seconds. It had to be this snail’s pace if they were to have any chance at all. Yet even this didn’t look as though it was going to save her.
‘We’d better launch the dinghy,’ he heard Dad say.
‘Kit and I can do that,’ said Mum. ‘You stick with the steering oar. You’re probably the only one of us who can work it.’
‘All right.’
‘Kit!’ called Mum. ‘Stop baling for a second and come up here!’
Kit hurried up to the cockpit.
‘Help me launch Splinters,’ she said.
They climbed over the cabin top and unlashed the dinghy.
‘Give me the painter,’ said Mum, and they eased Splinters over the side. Mum dumped the kitbags in her, then guided the dinghy round to the stern and made the painter fast.
‘Thanks, Kit’ she said, and returned to the pump.
Kit glanced quickly at the island. It was still some way off but in the last few minutes they seemed to have made a small amount of headway towards it. And one thing was clear now in the growing light of day. The thing that had looked like a cove was a cove. And inside was a shingly beach. If they could just get Windflower to that and run her up on the shore….
But once again his hopes were shattered by the sight of the water in the cabin. The pool had deepened further and he knew the situation was now critical. They would have to make a decision soon about whether to abandon ship. He looked for the bucket and saw it floating around with boxes, mugs, oars, the spare boathook, and as always the wretched carved boat. He grabbed the bucket and started baling furiously. It seemed to make little difference but he kept at the work until his body ached. After a while he heard Dad’s voice again.
‘All right, Kit. That’s enough now. Come up.’
‘But – ‘
‘I said come up! Don’t argue about it! It’s not safe down there now. The water’s got too deep. I need you up here. We may have to take to the dinghy any moment.’
He climbed up to the cockpit and looked around him. To his surprise they were barely two hundred yards from the mouth of the cove. To port was a large bluff and to starboard, at the other extremity of the cove, a long rocky scar running out for about fifty yards into the sea, a narrow platform barely three feet across and scarcely visible above the surface of the water. A fearsome thing but Dad had seen it and was giving it plenty of room.
They limped closer. The features of the island grew clearer. There was a rocky shore and a hill rising high above the cove. The slopes were mostly grassy but they were studded, too, with rocky outcrops and a high stony ridge at the peak and what looked like the dried-out beds of long-gone streams that had once cascaded down. The cove itself ran no more than a few hundred yards to its innermost point, the small shingly beach that Dad was aiming for.
Kit stared about him. There were no signs of present habitation but as they drew closer to the mouth of the cove, he saw on the rocky embankments of the two shores the remains of old stone cottages. No roofs or windows or doors, just shells and broken-down walls. They sailed on, Windflower rolling as before and the jib now fluttering as the wind grew fickle under the sloping sides of the cove.
‘Come on, girl,’ murmured Dad. ‘Just get us there.’
Kit held his breath and Windflower struggled on. He watched the ruins slip by and the shingle beach draw nearer. Below him in the cabin the water swirled as it pulled the hull deeper and deeper. He saw the little carved boat bobbing among the other things. He remembered what he had seen; and on an impulse turned and gazed out to sea.
The mist had cleared and night was gone. All was grey. The sea was grey; the sky was grey. Half a mile astern was the great rock. It, too, was grey: a deep, foul grey. He saw waves rolling in towards the island, long waves with angry crests; and nearer than that something else, something just a few yards astern of them: a dark shape slipping beneath the surface of the water like a vast moving shadow. He stared hard at it, trying to see it more clearly, but it eased away towards the sea and was gone. From somewhere beyond the cove came a long, eerie cry, the sound they had heard during the night. He shivered and turned to Mum and Dad.
But as he did so, Windflower grounded on the beach.
‘This utterly gripping narrative reaches out to teenagers in a way that could only be achieved by an individual who thoroughly understands and sympathises with his audience…Tim Bowler magnificently succeeds. His brilliant novel contains a level of imagination and authority that easily puts the success of the Harry Potter books to shame.’
Independent on Sunday
‘Tim Bowler is a writer of enormous and haunting power.’
David Almond
‘Apocalypse is a tremendous book, with a powerful physical reality and narrative drive…written with an exhilarating freedom of mind.’
School Librarian Journal
‘A narrative of remarkable power and resonance…a superb work of fiction.’
Times Educational Supplement
‘Vivid, frightening and tender, this dark and stimulating allegory has the merit of asking as many questions as it answers, yet still reaches a proper resolution.’
Sunday Times Children’s Book of the Week
‘Gutsy and gripping.’
Observer
‘A tense and insightful thriller.’
Bookseller
‘Mysterious and compelling.’
Sunday Times
‘Explosive.’
Telegraph
‘One of the most fluent and powerful pieces of writing I’ve come upon for ages…a wonderful story of hope and possibility.’
Wendy Cooling, Children’s Books Consultant
‘Extremely scary but always compelling, Apocalypse is a tale that will appeal to readers of all ages from eight to eighty.’
Writing Magazine
‘A powerful story of good and evil.’
Bookfest
‘A story that is wise and moving. The poignant ending will leave you shaken to the core.’
Stephen Lewis, Children’s Books Reviewer
‘A scintillating novel.’
Publishing News
‘Terrifying.’
Reading Matters
‘If we still described books as classics, this would be one of them.’
Caroline Franklin, Children’s Books Reviewer
‘A novel of good and evil, love and hope, faith and remembrance.’
Horn Book
‘Apocalypse is a meaty novel with some scary stuff, though it has tender moments too. I found it a hard book to write. The story frightened me with its vision of crashing worlds and harsh, unyielding ideologies. Yet the more I worked over the material, the more I came to realise that what I was trying to write was a book about love and redemption and human possibility. Yes, there is pain and suffering in Apocalypse, but there is also hope and friendship and courage. On one level it’s about a boy’s struggle to survive in horrific circumstances, but on a deeper level it’s about all of us, about our world, and what we must do in the face of our greatest evil.’
Tim Bowler
Starseeker was adapted for the stage by Phil Porter in 2006 and the world premiere took place on Friday 22 June 2007 at the Royal & Derngate Theatre in Northampton, England. The play was directed by Dani Parr, Associate Director at Royal & Derngate, who specialises in directing work for children and young people. The collaboration between Phil Porter and Dani Parr resulted in an unforgettable theatrical experience. John Johnson of the British Theatre Guide wrote, ‘At last we are presented with a piece of theatre aimed at teenagers that doesn’t patronize or pander to them – a complex story told beautifully with a touch of the dreamy surrealism often missed in this type of theatre.’
Tim attended the premiere and said, “It’s an evening I will never forget. The cast and team were brilliant, the audience fired up and I had a huge party of family and friends with me to share the experience. Seeing characters I had only ever known inside my head suddenly before me on the stage and hearing the music from the novel played live in a hushed theatre – these are memories that will stay with me forever.”
The adaptation of Starseeker is available at Oberon Modern Plays – The playscript and Heinemann Modern Plays – The playscript plus drama exercises for schools
He didn’t see her; but he heard her voice. It came whispering on the dusk like a dark, dreamy echo: a young girl’s voice, so light it was like hearing the voice of a spirit in the trees of Buckland Forest behind him; yet it was coming from the direction of The Grange. He stared at the old house and listened again; then realised with a start that it was the sound of weeping.
He looked at the others. Skin and Daz were still staring over the wall towards the house. Speed was slumped on the ground, eating a doughnut, his fat stubby fingers covered in sugar and jam; but he looked up. ‘Luke? You OK? You look kind of funny.’
‘I’m fine.’
It was obvious none of the other boys had heard the voice. Speed had turned straight back to his doughnut and the other two hadn’t even glanced round. Their eyes were fixed, as they had been for the last hour, on the front door of the house, Daz’s ferrety features twitching but Skin’s dangerously still and his face as fierce as fire. Luke hesitated, then spoke again.
‘Can anybody hear anything?’
‘Speedy burping,’ said Daz, not looking round. ‘But that’s nothing new.’
Luke frowned. The girl’s voice seemed so clear now. Why couldn’t the others hear it? He inched closer to the wall and peered over. Before him the garden of The Grange stretched away with its great untended lawn and flowerbeds and broken-down sheds, and beyond that, over to the left, the house itself, tall and gaunt in the failing light.
‘Any sign of Mrs Little?’ called Speed from below the wall.
‘Not yet,’ said Skin.
‘Maybe she won’t come out tonight.’
‘She will.’
‘You can’t be certain she’s going to come out. I mean, she hardly ever leaves the place.’ Speed took another bite from the doughnut. Skin flashed an angry glance at him, then turned back to the house.
‘She’ll come.’ He narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘She always goes to the village shop on Friday evenings and she’ll do the same tonight. Just watch.’
‘Well, she’ll have to hurry up,’ said Speed. ‘Or it’ll be closed.’
‘It’s late-night opening. She’s got time.’ Skin stiffened suddenly. ‘There she is. Keep still and get ready to duck if she looks this way.’
Luke held himself rigid and watched as Mrs Little emerged from the house with her shopping bags, closed the front door behind her and made her way towards the gate. Daz shook his head. ‘That is one seriously ugly old woman.’
It was true. She had to be the most repulsive-looking woman Luke had ever seen. She was certainly the most unpopular person in Upper Dinton. It was hard to believe there could ever have been a Mr Little, not that anyone in the village knew anything about him. They didn’t know much about her either, except that she’d lived at The Grange for about two years, all by herself, and that if anyone came near the house, she snapped at them and told them to get lost. It was as though she hated everybody in the world, especially fourteen-year-old louts, as she clearly saw them.
But now it was payback time. Now they were going get their own back for the times she’d mouthed them off. Because Mrs Little was rich. No one knew exactly how rich but it was obvious she was loaded. The Grange was the most expensive property in Upper Dinton, a beautiful old house, set apart from the rest of the village and with a great walled garden stretching right up to the edge of Buckland Forest – you had to have plenty of money to buy a place like this. But it wasn’t money Skin was after.
It was the box. Money would do, too, of course, if there was some lying around, but what Skin wanted – to the point of obsession – was the box he’d seen the old woman holding that time he peered through the window to check the place out. There had to be something really valuable inside it, jewels probably. Not that he’d seen any; but that didn’t matter. Whatever was inside, it was worth going for. The way she’d cradled the box and looked about her as she checked the contents, like a miser guarding her hoard – even if it wasn’t jewels inside, it had to be something pretty important to Mrs Little, so it was worth nicking for that reason alone.
‘She’s going,’ murmured Daz.
Luke watched the old woman’s figure disappear up the track towards Nut Bush Lane, then turn down it in the direction of the village. He felt Skin’s eyes upon him. ‘Right, Luke. Over to you.’
‘I don’t know if I want to do this any more.’
‘Sure you do.’ Skin looked him over. ‘We’ve been through this. You want to be part of the gang. And we want you to be part of the gang. But we need to know we can trust you. We need to know you’ve got the bottle.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Because if you haven’t, we don’t want you and you can clear off back to your piano playing and your music lessons.’
Luke looked back at the house and again heard the sound of weeping. Skin’s voice came darkly back. ‘You’re either for us or against us, Luke. And you don’t want to be against us. If you get my meaning.’
Luke stared into Skin’s eyes and it was like looking at two black flames. Close by, he sensed Daz and Speed watching his face. He bit his lip and tried to shut the weeping from his mind.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Good boy,’ said Skin.
They scrambled down to the track and ran along beside the wall as far as the gate. Skin stopped suddenly and glanced quickly round. All calmness was gone now; his face was as keen as a hunting dog’s. From the forest end of the track came the sound of horses’ hooves.
‘Quick!’ he said. ‘Round the side of the house!’
They climbed over the gate, sped round the building to the back, and waited, pressed against the wall. The sound of the hooves grew louder as they approached the house. Luke peeped round the side of the wall.
‘Who is it?’ whispered Skin.
‘Miranda Davis and her dad,’ he said, watching the two riders disappear from view in the direction of Nut Bush Lane.
Speed chortled. ‘Luke’s girlfriend.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Luke.
‘Oh, yeah? I’ve seen you two yakking at school.’
‘Shut up!’ said Skin. ‘We’ve got things to do.’
He led them further round the back of The Grange and stopped on the lawn. The house now looked sleepy in the half-light; the curtains were drawn across, both upstairs and down, and there were no lights on that Luke could see. Skin pointed to the nearest window on the ground floor. ‘That’s the sitting room. That’s where she was when I saw her with the box. Only I was looking in from the other side. I managed to climb up the wall by the track and see over.’
‘Maybe that’s where the box is now,’ said Daz. ‘In the sitting room.’
‘Doubt it. She’d keep it somewhere out of sight if it’s really valuable. But we can check the room out. See if you can find a gap in the curtain to look through.’
Daz ran over, found one at once and put an eye to it.
‘Bit of a weird place,’ he said. ‘Full of funny ornaments and stuff.’ He went on peering through the gap. ‘And it’s really dusty in there. She doesn’t do a lot of cleaning.’ He gave a snigger. ‘At least Luke’ll feel at home. It’s got a grand piano. He can play us some classical music while we’re looking round.’
Luke ignored the sneer.
‘Any sign of the box?’ said Skin.
‘No,’ said Daz.
‘Let me try.’ Skin walked up to the window, squinted through the gap for a few moments, then spoke again. ‘No, can’t see it either. Doesn’t matter. We’ll have a better look round once we’re inside.’ He straightened up and turned. ‘Right, it’s time for Luke Stanton to deliver.’
Luke felt all eyes fix upon him. Skin walked up and put an arm round his shoulder. ‘Come with me, Lucky Luke. I’ll show you something me and Daz spotted from behind the wall while Speedy was gobbling his doughnut and you were staring into space.’ He led them further round the back of the house and pointed upwards. ‘There.’
Luke followed the boy’s eyes, half-expecting to see a weeping girl, but instead he saw a drainpipe running up the wall, and two open windows, one a skylight in the roof, the other a window on the first floor below it.
‘Now we’ve made it easy for you,’ said Skin. ‘Since it’s your first job. And you’ve got to admit it’s a doddle. She’s even left you a nice metal drainpipe.’
Luke put a hand out and tested it. It seemed firm enough and Skin was right: it wasn’t a difficult climb. Even the others could probably manage it, apart from Speed, obviously. But Luke knew well enough that this evening was not about testing the others; it was about testing him; and, of course, getting the box. Skin nodded towards the drainpipe. ‘Off you go, then.’
Luke hesitated, looking from face to face. Skin took a step closer. The flames in his eyes now seemed darker, deeper, hotter; yet his voice was as cool as a knife. ‘I said off you go, Luke. We’re counting on you. We need you. You can climb better than any of us. Better than anybody I know. Do this one right and there’ll be other jobs. Nice easy jobs, just like this one. No danger, no fuss. Stick with us and we’ll all benefit. You wanted to join the gang and have a go at Mrs Little – here’s your chance. So get going. And remember what I told you – don’t hang about once you’re in. Just let us through the front door and we’ll do the rest.’
Luke ran his hand over the drainpipe, feeling more and more reluctant to get involved; yet he knew he had gone too far now to draw back from this; and refusal would bring terrible consequences. Everyone knew what Skin could do. He started to climb. It was a relief to leave the others below, yet somehow he felt more frightened than ever now. What would he find inside this spooky old house? He reached the level of the first-floor window and stopped for a moment, clinging to the drainpipe. From below came a scent of honeysuckle; from above, once again, the sound of weeping. And it seemed more desperate, more urgent than ever.
Who was this girl? And where was she? And why was she crying? He went on clinging to the drainpipe, trying to think and at the same time fight his old familiar doubts. What if this weeping were just his imagination? He knew his hearing was acute, much more so than most people’s, and that he heard things long before others did, but he also knew that he heard sounds that no one else seemed able to hear at all; so much so that he was starting to suspect that they were just part of his imagination. And maybe this weeping girl was his imagination, too. Whatever the truth, he knew he had to go through with the break-in. The retribution Skin would exact for failure would be worse than anything a weeping girl – real or imaginary – could do to him. As if to prompt him, Skin called out from below. ‘Go on, Luke! Get a move on! Even Speed could have got in by now!’
Luke glanced back at the window. It was a little further from the pipe than it had seemed from below but he should just be able to make it. He stretched out his left foot and positioned it on the window ledge, then caught hold of the window frame and pulled himself across so that he was crouched on the ledge, square-on to the window. Through the opening he could see a small study with a writing desk and a swivel chair, and shelves covered with grotesque figurines that seemed to shriek at him as he peered in. Again he heard Skin’s voice, now spitting with impatience.
‘Get a move on! We’re wasting time! Go down and let us in!’
He pulled himself into the room, glad to be out of sight of the others, but uneasy now that he was inside the house. The sound of weeping was louder than ever and it seemed to be coming from somewhere above him. He tiptoed to the door of the room and put his head round. A broad, unlit landing ran either side of him. To the left were three closed doors and one – half-open – at the end; to the right was a stairway down to the hall and, just beyond, at the other end, a small closed door raised slightly in the wall. Again he saw shelves bedecked with strange statuettes: figures dancing, figures playing musical instruments, figures pulling faces. He frowned. Best just to run downstairs, open the front door and get the thing over with. Let Skin find his box. As for the weeping – it didn’t exist; it couldn’t exist. No one else had heard it so it was just his imagination playing tricks, like all the other noises he’d heard – or thought he’d heard – over the years, especially since Dad died.
He ran to the top of the stairs and started to hurry down. A loud sob, somewhere above him, froze him to the spot. He stood there, trembling, and listened. It’s not real, he told himself. It’s just imagination. Mrs Little lives alone. Everyone knows that. She hates people. There’s no one here. He heard another sob above him, so loud this time it was almost a scream. He looked up to where the sound seemed to have come from and tried to picture the outside of the building and what was up there.
The open skylight. It had to be that. The Grange must have some kind of attic room. His eye fell on the little raised door at the far end of the landing and he stared at it, trying to find a reason not to go and inspect it; but he knew he had to. Breathing hard, he climbed back to the landing, walked over to the door and pulled it open. Before him was a narrow flight of steps twisting upwards. He stared at them, his mind a confusion of voices: voices shrieking at him to turn back, let the others in, get away from whatever this was; and other voices, urging him to go up and find out where this weeping was coming from. It might not be imagination. It might be real. There might be someone here, someone who needed his help. Clenching his fists, he started, as softly as he could, to climb.
‘Tim Bowler’s Starseeker is a thriller with a big heart and a real glimpse of the human soul, full of plot and passion, music and mystery. It’s very rare to find a book that moves the heart, touches the spirit and yet remains so well grounded in everyday life. It’ll stick to your fingers, this one – don’t miss it.’
Melvin Burgess
‘A wonderfully rich novel by a consummate storyteller.’
School Librarian Journal
‘A lovely, sure-footed novel. Bowler…is lyrical and emotionally charged – on full throttle, revving up our sense of what it is like to be a young person in the world today.’
The Observer
‘One of the truly individual voices in British teenage fiction.’
Independent
‘An intensely moving and powerful story.’
Mail on Sunday
‘A memorable book. Tim Bowler’s best yet.’
David Almond
‘Compelling and suspenseful, this book understands that peer pressure for boys is tough, but is also full of male role models who are creative and sensitive.’
Sunday Times
‘A tremendously moving novel from this Carnegie Medal winner.’
Financial Times
‘This sixth novel from the Carnegie winner gets off to a strong start and maintains a gripping narrative with both lyricism and drama.’
The Bookseller
‘Powerful and mysterious…a sensitive, self-affirming novel. This is Tim Bowler’s best book yet.’
Wendy Cooling
‘Absolutely magnificent, one of the best books I’ve read this year.’
Angie Simpson, Children’s Core-Stock Coordinator, Waterstones
‘A thundering read, full of challenging ideas, strong emotions and layers of plotting. Bowler is a fearless writer with complex, demanding ideas….utterly compelling.’
Lindsey Fraser, Guardian
‘Intriguing and original. A fine book, as you’d expect from Tim Bowler. It attempts to grapple with a breadth of life…and with more themes…than most books, whether written for children or adults, ever do.’
Susan Price, Guardian
‘A fantastic book with a great story line. Some of the time I even felt I was there with Luke and I always had a vivid picture of the scene in my mind.’
Sunday Express
‘A bruiser of a book, hugely ambitious in scope and depth. This is not writing for the faint-hearted. However, Bowler’s dexterous, flowing language and dramatic plotting have earned him a growing following of readers who will rise to his considerable challenge.’
Glasgow Herald
‘A thoroughly engrossing story which involves the reader fully. It is long enough to feel spacious and developed, and the reader is compelled to turn the pages.’
Times Educational Supplement
‘A complex emotional drama.’
Literary Review
‘This is an extremely ambitious novel, incorporating many themes of philosophical and metaphysical concern, abstractions which enrich what is already a wonderfully engrossing narrative. Highly recommended.’
Books for Keeps (five stars)
‘A hugely rewarding read. The intensity and quality of Tim Bowler’s characters are superb throughout. Should leave a huge impression on the reader.’
Amazon
‘A tight, heart-stopping dilemma of a story. Straight into my top ten favourites of all time.’
Reading Matters
‘A gripping narrative with both lyricism and drama.’
Book News
‘Leaves you almost breathless. I couldn’t put it down.’
Bookstore
‘This is special – lyrical, dramatic, unputdownable. Tim Bowler has surpassed himself.’
JMS Books Fiction Review
‘From the opening page, I found this novel enthralling. Starseeker has everything.’
Bookshelf
‘Starseeker is a story about many things, especially music, but the novel actually starts with a gang of boys trying to break into a house. That was my first image. I had to write several drafts of the novel before I worked out what I was trying to say. The story concerns a boy called Luke who is desperately mixed up after his father’s death. He’s a brilliant musician but in his distress he has fallen into bad company and is being steered into danger. To make matters worse, he’s becoming increasingly disturbed by strange psychic noises he keeps hearing day and night. Starseeker is a story that works on several levels and covers several themes. It’s about hope and healing and light, it’s about music and the song of creation, it’s about coming through grief and learning to love again. It’s about a boy growing into manhood, growing into genius, growing into spirit. It’s about a tiny girl who will change his life.’
Tim Bowler
The sound came again, cutting through the night: a sharp metallic tap that carried even to the first floor of the house where Sam lay sleeping. Ella stood over him and listened for it again but all she heard was rain spattering against the window. There was a storm coming – a fine start to the summer holidays – but that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was being alone in the house at ten o’clock at night looking after Sam. She wished now that Fin hadn’t slipped out to see Billy but it was her own fault: she’d insisted he go, telling him Mum and Dad would never know as long as he was back before they returned from the pub.
But that could be ages. Billy’s parents had gone with them, which meant Mum and Mrs Meade would be yakking non-stop and Mr Meade would be trying to talk Dad into buying a new car from his showroom or joining the Save-the-Lighthouse project. They wouldn’t leave the pub before eleven and Fin would take his time, especially as she’d promised him she was all right.
But she wasn’t all right. She was terrified.
The sound came again, downstairs. She crept to the door. At least she hadn’t undressed for bed. She’d been thinking of it but she was still in the jeans, T-shirt and trainers she’d slopped around in all day, and now she was glad of it. It made her feel less vulnerable – though only a little.
She glanced at Sam. He looked so peaceful as he slept. She didn’t remember sleeping like that when she was three and now, at thirteen, she hardly slept at all. She was scared of the dark, scared of the noises she heard in this ancient house, and now, after Mr Fenner’s lecture in assembly about the need to be vigilant with strangers, she was even scared someone was stalking her round the village, though she knew that must be ridiculous.
Tap! The sound came again. She knew she ought to go down and investigate. Fin would. He might be small for fifteen but he’d go straight down and look the thing in the face. She made herself walk to the head of the stairs. Below her, the hall stretched away in eerie stillness. The lights were on but the house felt oppressive.
There’s nothing wrong, she told herself, and started to walk down the stairs. It’s just a storm coming. But it was no use. Polvellan was a house that had always frightened her even though she’d lived here all her life. It wasn’t just that it was such an old building. There was something else, something she didn’t understand; she felt uneasy here even when the others were around.
Tap! The sound snapped in the night again. She opened her mouth to call out and ask if anyone were there, then closed it again. If somebody were in the house, the last thing she should do was give herself away. She thought of Sam and wondered whether to go back and guard him.
No, check the downstairs rooms first. Make yourself do it. Then go back to Sam.
She tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and looked about her. On the wall nearby was the photograph of Dad at the opening of his Newquay superstore. Next to it were the sketches he had made of the Pengrig lighthouse ten years ago before the cliff-falls made it an endangered building. She ran her eye nervously over them, then scanned the hall as far as the front door.
Tap! She gave a start and looked to the left. The noise had come from the sitting room. There was no doubt about it. She stared at the door; it was ajar and the lights inside the room were switched off. She reached for the telephone. Ring Billy. Get him to send Fin home.
But she drew her hand back. She had to master this. She had to check the noise out for herself. It was bound to be something simple. She walked to the sitting room door and gave it a push. It brushed over the carpet a few inches and stopped. She stared through the gap, then took a deep breath, pushed the door a little further, and craned her head round.
The old room looked dusky but reassuringly familiar. Behind the drawn curtains she could hear the rain lashing against the window; but at least there was no one here. She pushed the door fully open and switched on the light. The features of the room sprang into focus: the piano, the fireplace, the armchairs, the sofa, the music stand with her flute beside it. She walked into the room.
Tap! She jumped. It was the window. Someone must be out there, hidden by the curtains. She hurried to the phone, picked it up and started to dial nine-nine-nine; then put it down. This was stupid. The tap wasn’t regular. It might not be a person at all; it might be something trivial. What would Dad say if she called the police out for nothing? She strode to the window, pulled back the curtain, and burst out laughing.
It was nothing after all. A chain from one of the hanging baskets had broken loose and gusts were throwing it up at the window so that every so often the metal ring at the end struck the glass. Tap! There it was again. She chuckled and reached out to close the curtain; then froze in horror.
Reflected in the glass was a figure standing behind her in the doorway.
She whirled round. It was a man, a huge man built like a bear. He wore a black oilskin top and black waterproof trousers, all gleaming wet, and blue sailing shoes. The hood was up and fastened tight round the face, which was half-obscured by a scarf over the mouth and nose. She took a step back.
‘Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.’
The eyes stared darkly at her.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘You,’ came the answer.
‘Storm Catchers is that rare thing – a thriller that makes you think. It’s a powerful mix of suspense and subtlety.’
Gillian Cross
‘Storm Catchers is a cliff-top cliff-hanger about a kidnap by the sea, with a supernatural element. Fin, the boy hero, dares all to save his sister in an atmospheric tale that is suspenseful and scary, and that also shows how families can look after each other.’
Sunday Times
‘Bowler’s latest classic is a psychological thriller that’s every bit as classy as the works of Barbara Vine…a great read.’
Guardian
‘Storm Catchers by Carnegie Medal winner Tim Bowler is so packed with suspense, lurching from the problems of one character to another, that you can’t easily put it down.’
Newbury Weekly News
‘Bowler writes tight, exciting adventures that always look at serious issues and usually include an element of fantasy….As usual Bowler spins a good yarn but leaves us plenty to think about.’
Glasgow Herald
‘Heady stuff, full of atmosphere, energy and emotional shrapnel.’
Guardian Education
‘This book is very exciting and compulsive.’
coolreads
‘Tim Bowler’s novel is a thriller with a supernatural element. As well as a tense plot, there’s a strong sense of place; the rocky, isolated Cornish coast providing the background.’
Times Educational Supplement
‘I didn’t have a particular favourite part – I loved it all!! The ending wasn’t what I expected but it’s good to be surprised. This book keeps you on the edge of your seat the whole way through, and urges you to want to read on. There’s a strange twist at the end, which I enjoyed. I think it’s good for boys and girls, especially those who like a thriller.’
Teen Titles
‘Tim Bowler writes in a special way making sure that you do not put the book down.’
Booktrusted News
‘It’s the fast, realistic action and dialogue and the stormy coastal setting that drive this story.’
Booklist
‘Complex themes of guilt and betrayal enhance the suspense.’
School Library Journal
‘Storm Catchers had a strange beginning. I had just finished River Boy and sent it off to my agent. I opened a new file on my computer, took a deep breath, and started the book I’d been brooding about for several months, which went on to become Shadows. While I was writing Shadows, however, images of another, quite different story started flooding my mind. Before long I was finishing each day’s work on Shadows with some doodling on this strange other novel. It started with a girl who hears a tapping noise in the night while she’s looking after her little brother and although she’s frightened, she goes downstairs to investigate. I wrote Chapter 1 without having the slightest idea of where Chapter 2 was going to go but, somehow or other, the next time I looked up (or so it felt), I was a month older, the book was on Chapter 12, and the story was tumbling out of me at a rate of knots. It wasn’t to last, however, and I finally lost my way with it after about fifty thousand words. I then had a dilemma. Shadows was taking shape pretty well but there was this other novel about a girl who is kidnapped and her older brother’s attempts to find her, and the little psychic boy with his eerie visions, and the derelict lighthouse on the cliff, casting its menace over everything. It didn’t want to let go. I resisted it somehow, finished Shadows, and, as with River Boy, sent the novel off to my agent. I then went back to the other story, took a deep breath, and started to write. Storm Catchers is the result.’
Tim Bowler
There was no sign of the girl in the alleyway by the health food shop but he wasn’t surprised. This was the last place he’d have wanted to go to alone, now that he thought about it, and he felt sure that even if she had considered coming to meet him, she would probably have taken one look at the dark entrance and changed her mind. He should have thought of a better meeting-place.
He looked around him uneasily. There had been several muggings in this part of town and all kinds of violent episodes after dark. The pubs had emptied some time ago but there was no knowing what kind of people might be lurking round here.
A car beam cut through the darkness, catching the side of the shops as it fanned down towards him. He stepped back inside the entrance to the alley and hid himself in the shadows. A few moments later, a police car swept past. And silence fell.
Then he heard a voice.
‘You’re late.’
He whirled round, startled, but saw nothing.
‘Here.’
The voice came from further down the alley. He walked to where the passageway twisted round at the end and saw the girl slumped on the ground, her back against the wall, her holdall beside her.
‘Have you got any food?’ she said bluntly.
He looked at her for a moment, then started to undo the rucksack. She spoke again, slightly less abruptly.
‘Sorry. Being hungry takes away your manners.’
‘It’s OK.’
He handed her one of the sandwiches he’d made up in the kitchen. She took it without a word and started wolfing it down with the same intensity as the last time he had seen her eat. He let her finish the sandwich, then spoke again.
‘Are you cold?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Only…’ He paused. ‘I’ve thought of a way of getting you warm tonight.’
She looked at him suspiciously.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can trust me. I promise.’
She held his gaze for a few more seconds, then sniffed and looked away.
‘Sorry. I know you’re trying to help.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘So what made you – ?’ He broke off, sensing a slight embarrassment in her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I can find a warmer place than this.’
He stood up and waited to see if she would move, too. She started to struggle to her feet. He hesitated, having momentarily forgotten she was pregnant, then reached out a hand. She took it at once and he pulled.
Her hand felt cold but she was soon on her feet and let go of his hand at once. He picked up his rucksack.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Tim Bowler scores again…a real page turner.’
The Bookseller
‘Lots of pace, action and a couple of shocking twists!’
The Young Telegraph
‘Had me turning pages at a rate of knots. It is exciting and sensational. It is moving and caring.’
Books for Keeps
‘The writing is tight and sharp throughout, and Tim Bowler skillfully uses the context of squash-playing to explore family relationships, friendships and the need to face up to our fears.’
School Library Association
‘A tenderly gripping and intensely frightening story…one of our more darkly interesting writers for the young.’
Michael Thorn, Literary Review
‘The story zips along.’
Observer
‘Fast-paced narrative and dramatic tension.’
School Librarian
‘Shadows is a gritty love story based on the effects of overbearing parental influence in the arena of top-level teenage squash. I’ve been a keen squash player all my life and I have always felt that it would be a good topic to include in a novel. I love the gladiatorial quality of one-against-one sport. The characters in Shadows are based to some extent on people I’ve actually known but the story is about much more than just squash. I started writing about a young boy and his relationship with his father, who is desperate for his son to become a champion squash player and succeed where he himself had failed, but before I knew what was happening, a young girl had appeared in the story – a pregnant girl sleeping rough and in terrible danger – and suddenly I was writing a completely different story which turned into a tough, fast-moving thriller.’
Tim Bowler
It didn’t start with the river boy. It started, as so many things started, with Grandpa, and with swimming. It was only later, when she came to think things over, that she realised that in a strange way the river boy had been part of her all along, like the figment of a dream.
And the dream was her life.
Half-past nine in the morning and the pool was crowded already. That was the down-side to summer holidays, especially hot ones like this, but she knew she shouldn’t grumble: she’d been here since six thirty, together with the usual hard-core of serious swimmers, and she’d managed a leisurely four miles without interruption.
But she did grumble; the mere sight of all these people flopping in like lemmings made her want to shout with frustration. She wasn’t ready to stop yet, not by a long way. She had energy left and she wanted to use it.
She stuck to her lane, doggedly ploughing length after length, trying to ignore the splash of other swimmers. Sometimes she’d found that if she just forced herself to keep on swimming, the other users of the pool seemed by some collective telepathy to accept that space as hers, and leave it to her. But that wouldn’t work today: they seemed to be jumping in by the score. Another quarter of an hour and it would be unbearable.
She locked into her stroke and drove herself on, her breath beating its practised rhythm in time with her strokes, as even as the chime of a clock. In for a gulp of oxygen, her mouth twisted upwards to snap its life from the air, then face down again and the long exhalation to a slow, steady count, bubbles teasing her lips like tiny fish.
She loved this rhythm; she needed it. It kept her thoughts on track when they started to wander. Sometimes, when things were going well and she was feeling secure in herself and had something pleasant to think about, she was happy to let them wander; but if she was tiring or feeling vulnerable or worrying about Grandpa again, she focused on that rhythm and it settled her, sometimes even when she wasn’t swimming.
But she was always swimming. She needed to swim. To be deprived of swimming would be like a perverse kind of drowning. She loved the sensation of power and speed, the feeling of glistening in a bed of foam, even the strange isolation of mind in this watery cocoon. Distance swimming was as much about will as about technique; and she knew she was strong in both. All she needed now, to set that will alight, was a big swimming challenge; something to test herself against. Something she could one day be proud of.
She heard Grandpa’s voice calling her.
‘Keep going, Jess!’
She glanced up at him as she flashed by, and smiled to herself. She knew what ‘keep going’ meant. Dear old Grandpa: he’d only been here twenty minutes and he was bored already. He ought to know by now that he could never fool her, of all people. His concentration span had always been short, except when he was painting, and his temper shorter still. Yet for some reason he always liked to come and watch her swimming.
She reached the far end of the pool, turned and kicked off the wall, and looked for Grandpa again. He’d wandered round to the shallow end and was standing there, watching some children. He was ready to go; but maybe she could squeeze in a couple more lengths to finish off. She plunged down towards him, feeling for some reason slightly apprehensive. The children in the shallow end blocked her lane but they broke apart as she approached and she slipped in between them, wondering whether she should stop.
Grandpa called out again.
‘Everything’s fine, Jess. Keep going.’
She kicked off the wall and headed back down the pool, suddenly desperately uneasy. Something was wrong but she couldn’t work out what it was. His words rang in her head: everything’s fine, everything’s fine. And yet there was something in the very contrariness of Grandpa that told her he was trying to conceal something. He was such a stubborn, prickly old man, he would always say everything was fine.
Especially when it wasn’t.
She broke out of her stroke and stopped, treading water, and searched for Grandpa. There he was, still standing by the shallow end, watching the children. He looked all right; no different from before. Just bored. Perhaps she was imagining all this. He saw her and raised a hand to wave.
Then, to her horror, clutched it over his heart and crashed into the pool.
‘A river is a natural metaphor for life and death and Tim Bowler uses it to wonderful effect in this lovely simple story. River Boy is written in quiet, non-poetic prose – but it’s a poem, as well as a very moving novel.’
Susan Cooper
‘Beautifully written…it feels like a written painting, a descriptive, emotive work that will mean something different to each reader. This mystical story is a true work of literature.’
Voya
‘River Boy has all the hallmarks of a classic…You are not the same person at the end of this book.’
Carnegie Medal judges
‘The book is indeed a stunner – powerful, magical, unforgettable, a young classic of a book enjoying the first couple of years of what could and should be immortality.’
Evening Echo
‘Unflinchingly facing down the subject of death, Bowler elevates it into an elegiac, magical depiction of a granddaughter’s relationship with her grandfather.’
Scotland on Sunday
‘It’s an intense, mystic exploration of the relationship between a teenage girl and her irascible grandfather, an artist. Bowler’s writing creates indelible visual images and his characters are a refreshing change from the stereotypical problem children and single parents with which contemporary children’s literature is littered…engrossing.’
Time Out
‘The atmosphere is haunting, the sense of the power beyond ourselves, strong and silent, and the mystery of the natural world, woodlands and airy hills and sliding, glittering water are beautifully suggested, as is the strength – oh, subject most rare – of familial love.’
The Spectator
‘River Boy is strong on mood and atmosphere. It deals with death unpretentiously and unsentimentally, investigating the final stages with dignity and calm.’
The Guardian
‘A fine winner of this year’s Carnegie Medal – haunting, poetic and written with great feeling.’
The Mail on Sunday
‘Bowler’s sensitive but often dark tales have slowly built his standing, while this year’s Library Association Carnegie Medal for children’s fiction with River Boy has sealed his reputation as one of the best new children’s authors.’
Publishing News
‘Beautifully written and brimming with startling imagery.’
Junior Education
‘A lyrical story of bereavement that manages not to be effete thanks to credible and courageous characters and a plot that involves mystery and tension.’
The Sunday Times
‘A superbly written, well-crafted story.’
School Librarian Journal
‘A beautifully written story.’
Carousel
‘A thrilling time-slip novel…an imaginative and tense read for long dark evenings.’
Oxford Times
On 15 July 1998 James Naughtie announced that River Boy was the winner of the coveted Carnegie Medal. ‘This book is an antidote to the Cool Britannia culture of slick, superficial emotions,’ said Tricia Kings, Chair of The Library Association’s Youth Libraries Group panel of 13 children’s librarians, who selected the winner. ‘In describing Jess’s struggle to come to terms with the fact that her grandfather is dying, River Boy deals with one of life’s profoundest challenges – coping with the loss of someone you love. Thank God the next generation can draw on imaginative literature of this calibre in helping make sense of life – and death’.
The judges chose River Boy over two acclaimed prize-winning books on the shortlist of seven titles. ‘This extremely fine novel was a clear winner,’ Tricia Kings concluded. ‘It was not at all a compromise choice. River Boy has all the hallmarks of a classic – it deepens with re-reading, and takes the reader on a journey. You are not the same person at the end of this book’.
‘River Boy is a story that seemed to come in snatches of dream that initially made no sense to me. The title came first. It just popped into my mind. I had no idea what the words meant or what I was going to do with a river and a boy, but I had a picture of a young girl in my head, and an image of my paternal grandfather. He was a lovely old man who died when I was 14, nothing at all like the crusty old grandfather who appears in River Boy, though I grew very fond of him, too, by the end of the book. The girl was called Lucy in the first draft, then for some reason she became Jess. I had several false-starts with the writing, then one day my wife came home with a painting of a river and suddenly the grandfather in the story became an artist and I realised that the painting and the boy and the river were going to become spiritual metaphors and the book was going to be about life and death and love and hope.’
Tim Bowler
A nightmarish chiller’
Times Educational Supplement
‘This book was a brilliant read’
Teen Titles
‘Most likely to appeal to confident readers who enjoy a blend of fantasy and realism’
School Librarian
‘Bowler’s novel is not light; it deals with death, anger, hatred and murder. The fact that this is seen from the perspectives of young boys makes it all the more hard-hitting.’
Grail
‘A gripping tale of ancient magic…Dragon’s Rock demonstrates Tim Bowler’s storytelling talents to the full.’
Totnes Times
Toby knew she had come for him.
She had power. He felt it rippling about her like the chilling presence that surrounded him, in the house, in his room, and now here amid the darkness and the mist, a power that reached inside him and held him like a hand of ice. And he knew that this woman was the architect of that darkness and that mist, and of the deep despair swelling within him. He wanted to jump up and run but his body felt like a dead thing, a sack of bones and flesh no longer his but hers. He felt his mouth open to shout.
But no sound came.
She was moving closer now. He heard the squelch of her boots again in the slush, saw the grotesque body lean towards him. Then her face sharpened into focus.
He recoiled.
Not from the hideousness of it; he had seen that before, though from a distance. But only now was he close enough to see where the real terror came from.
Her eyes.
Suddenly he was on his feet.
Running.
Mist clung to him like a bag over his face. He heard his breath pounding against it.
The face emerged from the mist.
Dead ahead.
He blundered to the left, panting, his feet plunging deep in the mud.
It appeared again. Still ahead.
He turned and stumbled back the way he had come.
Again it took shape.
Always before him.
He staggered to a halt and stared, praying that the face was a trick, that it would fade into the gloom. Then the eyes moved, and beneath them, uncoiling like a serpent, the body thickened and closed upon him once more.
This time he did not run. He knew now it was useless. But he also knew that somehow he had to resist. He heard a growl deep in the woman’s throat, saw the mouth twitch into an obscene leer, like the smile of a dog.
He ran at her, fists clenched.
‘Leave me alone, you bloody witch!’
He threw out a punch. But it never connected.
A hand squeezed the breath from his throat and forced him back. He struggled but the grip only tightened. The other hand started to claw his body. Wriggling with revulsion he tried to squirm free. Then suddenly he understood.
The stone. She’s come for the stone.
But there was no time to think of that. Both hands were round his throat now, holding him in a vice that wrung all resistance from him. Then her eyes bore into his.
And that was the worst of all.
More than the jabbing beak of her demon-bird, more than anything she could ever do to his body, this was the worst. He saw himself suddenly, as though through her, a helpless bundle of fears, trembling, yearning, begging her eyes to release him.
But they did not release him.
Instead they spoke, with a dark inner growl he instantly comprehended. One word. One question. For the one thing this woman wanted from him.
Where? The eyes said, Where?
And as they drove down into him like a torrent, searching his mind for the answer, he felt deep within him the frail bubble of his secret stir and strain upward towards her, longing to give itself to her so that he could be free. But even as it rose, floating on the current of her will, he felt another part of him awake, a part he did not know existed, a part that reached out and snatched the bubble back.
He prayed that the defiance had shown in his face.
Her eyes blazed on, driving deeper into him until he no longer knew whether she had torn the secret from him or not.
Then she threw him to the ground and was gone.
‘Dragon’s Rock is set in Devon. It’s a story about earth magic and prejudices and the way our inner natures impact on our outer environment. The story came to me while I was finishing Midget. At the time I used to live in a small village near to Dartmouth and most days I had to travel on my motorbike to the town of Totnes. On the way I’d pass a low stone wall along the top of a field, at the bottom of which was the crumbling ruin of a farmhouse (which is still there to this day). A mile further down the road, high up on a hill, was a solitary standing stone that broke into view as my motorbike crested the rise, then vanished a few seconds later when the hedge cut it from view. Before long, every time I rode to Totnes, I found myself stopping by the stone wall to gaze down at the ruined farmhouse, and then, a mile later, stopping again to gaze up at the standing stone – and on the way back from Totnes, I would do it all over again. Soon I was writing a novel about a ruined farmhouse and a standing stone called Dragon’s Rock.’
Tim Bowler
The voice hissed into his ear.
‘So you managed to sneak out again. And have another little look at what you know you can’t have. What a pointless exercise.’
There was no need to turn to know who it was. No need to try and run.
No point in running.
He’d been wondering if maybe this could be his year. The year everything worked out right, even though it was half gone, and nothing was changed. And he’d been daring to dream. About the usual thing.
But that tumbled out of his mind now. In its place came thoughts of pain, fear, darkness.
‘You know you shouldn’t be here,’ sneered the voice. ‘You should be at home, getting ready for your – ‘ the sarcasm deepened ‘- big appointment.’
He blinked hard, knowing what was coming, feeling it starting to slither over his mind and body, somehow laughing at his useless attempts to hold it back. But already the estuary was receding. For a moment he saw the glistening belly of mud, and far out from the shore, the waters of the Ray Gut, dancing with boats. Even the dark, distant shape of Southend Pier, stretched out like an uncurled whip. Then that faded with the rest.
‘Vision going?’ The voice clucked in mock sympathy. ‘Usually does, doesn’t it? You mustn’t get so worked up over things.’
He felt his fingers twist and clutch round his eyes, as though trying to hold in the light which now oozed from them. High above him, he heard gulls screaming.
The voice gave an exaggerated sigh, this time in his other ear. ‘Another fit coming. And here you are, with just me to look after you.’
‘A-ah!’ A tremor rippled through his hands and he thrust them into his pockets.
‘That won’t work,’ jeered the voice. ‘You won’t stop the spasms that way. You’ve tried that before.’
Now all he saw was darkness. In the absence of light, he clung to other sensations: the tang of the estuary; the prickle of sweat along his neck; the rumble of a train behind the sea wall, thundering down towards Southend. But these too were leaving him. He felt his head roll, his eyes gyrate, his shoulders, arms, legs tense and twitch. He tasted blood on his tongue where he’d bitten into it.
The voice came back again, drawling its favourite theme.
‘Midget. Mad Midget. The loony from Leigh-on-Sea.’
‘M-m-m – ‘ The first spasm locked him in a knot of pain.
‘Midget the Mumbler. Fifteen years old. And he still can’t master his speech impediment. Not that we want to hear him talk.’
He managed to champ his jaws, but whether to spit or snarl or bite, he no longer knew, nor could control.
‘Midget the Masher. Who can’t eat without getting food all over himself. And everybody else.’
‘M-m – ‘
‘Midget the Moron. Can’t read the simplest word or write his own name. No wonder they won’t have him at school. And hardly surprising the home tutors keep giving up.’
‘M – ‘
‘Midget the Mess. Acne all over. And three foot tall!’
‘M – ‘
Now the voice was a guffaw. ‘Midget the Mistake. The ugly little dwarf who turned up even though we never wanted him.’
Suddenly it lowered. ‘Midget the Murderer.’
‘M-m – ‘
And hardened. ‘My pathetic little brother.’
There were no more words, and none were needed. He would not have heard them anyway. The spasms had taken over, and could not be stopped. He fell back, gasping for air, as the fit rushed upon him like a smothering sea.
‘A masterly handling of suspense and cold, trickling horror.’
Sunday Telegraph
‘A risky and powerful novel.’
Times Educational Supplement
‘A powerful, disturbing, highly original story.’
Junior Bookshelf
‘The writing is piercingly direct in this psychological thriller…steadily building tension will keep readers spellbound to the end.’
The Horn Book
‘Suspenseful and fast-paced…a chilling glimpse of sibling rivalry…the ending hauntingly demonstrates the danger power poses to those who abuse it.’
SLJ, starred review
‘Midget is a psychic and psychological thriller set in Leigh-on-Sea where I was born. Having lived and sailed in that area throughout my early life and known the magical beauty of the Thames Estuary, I had always wanted to use the setting for a novel. For some reason the ending came into my mind first. I was walking by the estuary one day at low tide, looking out over the mudbanks, and a picture came to me fully formed of the final dramatic moment of the novel. I had no idea how the story was going to get to that point and it took me ten years of writing to work out the answer. The book is a study of power, abuse and sibling rivalry taken to an intense degree. It concerns a boy of fifteen who is three foot tall and tortured by his elder brother. His acquisition in mysterious circumstances of a sailing boat that he has long coveted sets off a chain of events that seem to release him from his pain but ultimately lead to a desperate conclusion.’
Tim Bowler
Two things happened on my fourteenth birthday. I had a massive row with Dad – and I died.
It started around dusk. We were having a week’s holiday in Totnes – big mistake. Don’t get me wrong. I like Totnes. We often used to go there for little breaks when Dad and Mum were together. It was good to get away from London and we liked to go somewhere different.
And Totnes is different. I don’t know what it is about the place. It’s like nowhere you’ve ever been. You feel like you’re walking through the present and the past at the same time. We used to go there a lot as a family.
But that was in the days before Mum met Mr Perfect and walked out on us, and then Dad met Angela. Everything’s gone wrong since then. It’s not that I blame him for going out with someone else. The problem is I don’t like her.
She smiles too much and she keeps trying to be matey with me. I wish she wouldn’t. And she’s got bad skin. I mean, I know it’s not her fault and she’s always putting cream on and stuff, but she doesn’t look good, not the way Mum did.
Anyway, there we were in this grotty guesthouse called Maudlin Lodge. It was in a street that climbed up towards the Kingsbridge Arms, not a part of Totnes I knew at all.
There was no one else staying there – what a surprise – and it was run by this loopy woman called Mrs Capstick. She looked like she had one foot in this world and one foot in some other. And her husband didn’t look much better.
We arrived in the late afternoon and within five minutes I was so bored and fed up I wanted to scream.
Then Dad and I had this row. It was all about Angela, of course. She’d bought me this CD collection for my birthday. I suppose she wasn’t to know Mum got me the same collection last year, but she should have checked with Dad first.
Anyway, I snapped at her. Dad told me off, so I snapped at him. We let rip at each other for a few minutes. Then I stomped out.
I was fuming. I tramped up the hill, hardly looking where I was going. Yet even in my anger, I could feel something else. Something that should have warned me.
It was a feeling I’d had before, a feeling that I’m walking into trouble and that if I turn away, I can avoid it. Only I never do. It’s a pride thing, I suppose. I tell myself I’ve got a right to go wherever I want.
Like the time I sensed Kenny and his mates were round the corner of the school gym and I had a chance to turn back. Only I went on and there they were. And I got beaten up.
Or the time I knew I shouldn’t follow Joel into the camera shop. He hadn’t said what he was going to do but I sensed he was going to nick something and probably get caught.
I didn’t have to go in with him. I’d even told him I had to get home, and he was OK about it. But I went in. I ignored my hunch, like I always do. And Joel got caught. And guess who else got into trouble?
And here was another hunch. It told me to stop and go back to Maudlin Lodge. So of course I carried on up the hill. I thought, why the hell shouldn’t I go this way if I want to?
Then I saw this funny little lane to my right. I stopped and looked it over. It was more of an alleyway really, tucked into the pavement. It had high walls on either side and all I could see was a dark passageway dipping for a few yards before twisting away out of sight. What lay beyond I had no idea.
I stared at it. I was still fuming and ready to bite the head off anyone who came by. In fact, I was practically hoping someone would come by so I could do just that. But there was that feeling again. That hunch.
Turn away, it said. Go back to the guesthouse. Make your peace with Dad and Angela.
No way.
I headed down the alleyway with my fists clenched, and before I’d gone more than a few yards I heard the sound of running water.
I stopped and listened. It was so unexpected it was almost magical. I stood there and let it wash over me. Perhaps if I’d stayed there a bit longer, it would have washed away my anger.
But anger doesn’t work like that. Not with me anyway. Sometimes I want to hold onto it, and this was one of those times.
I carried on down the alleyway, staring up at the high stone walls on either side. Then suddenly I came out into a sort of triangular yard bordered by walls. Two further alleyways led off it, one climbing on up the hill, the other dipping away to my right.
To my left was the weirdest sight.
It was some kind of spring or well. But it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was quite large and it was roughly rectangular with high stone walls on three sides. The fourth side opened onto the little space where I was standing.
Water trickled out from some point on the far wall but I couldn’t see where from. This was partly because the light was fading but also because my view was blocked by a scruffy old man.
He had his back to me and he was lying in the spring itself. I didn’t like the look of him. But he seemed harmless and obviously didn’t know I was there. I could creep forward and have a closer look and still have time to run for it if he turned round.
Again I felt that hunch. Turn away. Get out of here. Again I ignored it.
I stole forward until I was just a few feet from the spring. I could see it much more clearly now, even in the dusk.
The base was more or less flat and it had three stone baths, each with a spout above it. I could see water trickling out of one of them.
The floor was covered with stones, many arranged in intricate patterns. On the far wall there was an open grate and a stone ledge with little ornaments that people had left there. I could even see a love-heart made from wood and some words scrawled on it.
But the old man wasn’t interested in any of these things. His attention was on a small, dirty-looking object which he had wedged under the running spout and was cleaning as the water splashed onto it.
He appeared to be having some difficulty holding it in place and the water was splashing over him too. But he seemed unconcerned about this. All he cared about was cleaning the thing, whatever it was.
I looked him over. He was certainly a freaky character. He had a long coat with a hood, though this was down over the back of his neck, and the whole thing was so sodden it clung to him.
I could see the outline of a gaunt, wasted body underneath. His hair was scrawny and unkempt, and as wet as the rest of him. I couldn’t see his face at all.
Then he turned and I saw a revolting sight. If Angela’s skin was bad, this man’s was a thousand times worse.
His face was covered in sores. But that wasn’t all. His eyes were sunken. His forehead was unnaturally high. He had no teeth.
He was hideous.
He squinted up at me, then spoke in a high, quavering voice.
‘Who’s that?’
‘None of your business,’ I said.
‘Eh?’
‘None of your business!’
He sniffed.
‘Friendly type,’ he muttered.
I said nothing. He went on squinting up at me. It was obvious he was half-blind as well as half-deaf. I stared back at him, determined to show no fear.
‘So you haven’t got a name?’ he said.
‘I’ve got a name,’ I answered. ‘But I’m not telling you what it is.’
The man took the object he was washing away from the spout and rested it on the floor behind him. I tried again to make out what it was but the man’s body blocked it. He twisted himself painfully round.
I found the look in his eyes unsettling but I managed to glare back at him.
‘My name’s Stevie,’ I said.
I don’t know why I told him. I suppose it was just defiance. The old man sniffed again.
‘Ah,’ he mused. ‘Stephen.’
‘Not Stephen!’ I snapped. ‘Stevie!’
‘There was a Stephen in the Bible,’ the old man went on, in the same musing voice. ‘They stoned him to death.’
I felt suddenly cold. The old man moved and I took a step back. He looked up at me.
‘Help me stand up, Stephen.’
I kept well back. I wasn’t going near this guy.
I saw a hand reaching towards me.
‘I need your help, Stephen.’
‘Get away from me!’
‘Please, Stephen.’
‘No!’ I stared at him with revulsion. ‘You got in by yourself. You can get out by yourself.’
The old man’s hand stretched closer. I looked down at it and recoiled.
He had no fingers.
‘Get away!’ I shouted. ‘You’re disgusting!’
He drew his hand back without a word. I watched in horror as he tried to push himself up from the floor of the spring. I could see even from here that the other hand was fingerless too.
I looked quickly down at his feet. They were bare – and toeless.
I felt another wave of revulsion.
The old man struggled to his feet. I shouted at him, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
‘You see? You didn’t need my help at all!’
The old man stood there, swaying. I could hear the heavy sound of his breathing against the trickle of the water. He was watching me again but it was hard to see his expression now that darkness was closing around us.
He lurched towards the edge of the spring. I took a few steps towards the alleyway I had come down.
But the old man had no further interest in me. He struggled out of the spring and stood there for a moment. Then, without a glance in my direction, he shuffled off towards the alleyway that led down the hill.
A moment later he was gone.
I breathed out with relief. He might not have been dangerous but he was creepy. I turned to run back to the guesthouse, then suddenly noticed that the object the old man had been washing was still in the spring. I jumped down and picked it up.
It was a small, metal bell.
I shook it but no sound came out. It appeared to be broken.
I glanced over my shoulder for the old man. There was no sign of him. I held the bell up. Even in the darkness it gave off a dull glint. I climbed out of the spring and stood there, kicking some of the water from my shoes.
Then I felt another hunch. A really strong one.
Put the bell down, it said. Leave it where it was.
I gripped it tightly in my hand.
Put it down. Walk away. Do it now.
I squeezed the bell more tightly than ever and set off with it up the alleyway.
As I did so, something cold brushed against my legs.
I shivered and looked down.
There was nothing there. Just water dripping from my trousers onto the stony ground. I walked on and this time felt nothing more.
But something was wrong; and I needed no hunch to tell me what it was.
I was being followed.
I didn’t want to go. I was terrified of the place. But what excuse could I have given to Mr Tucker? Told him I was scared of an old ruin? That would have gone down like a lead balloon.
The trouble is I’m really sensitive to places. Sometimes I’ll go somewhere and it’ll give me the creeps. I don’t always know why. It just does. It’s kind of an odd thing so I’ve always kept quiet about it. I haven’t even told Cal or Ellie, and they’re my best mates.
Mum and Dad have always known about my fears, of course. But I didn’t tell them about this latest one. Dad was under big pressure at work. There was a strike on the way and as the union’s chief negotiator, he had plenty to think about.
And Mum – well, I wasn’t going to tell her. She frets too much about me as it is. Hopefully, I thought, Dad would be too busy worrying about work and Mum would be too busy worrying about him for either of them to notice there was anything wrong with me.
Odette would be different. There was never any fooling her. It’s weird having a sister like that. She’s only seven but she always seems to spot when I’m having a shivery moment. She’ll tell me I’ve got one of my ‘funny faces’, as she puts it.
But she can’t stop me having these moments. No one can. I just have to face them when they come. And I didn’t like the feelings I was getting right now.
‘Totnes Castle was built in the early months of 1068,’ Mr Tucker was telling the class, his bald head shining in the hot June sun like a bright, crinkly egg. ‘It’s what’s called a motte and bailey castle. The Normans had lots of them built all over the country.’
He beamed round at us.
‘This huge mound we’re on is called the motte and it’s made up of pounded earth and rock. And as you can see from up here on the wall walk, we’ve got a commanding view over Totnes and the river Dart.’
I glanced warily over the town, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. My family had only been in Totnes for nine months but I’d felt funny about the castle right from the start. I had no wish to be here.
But history teachers like Tucker are driven men. And if you’re doing the Norman Conquest in class and there’s a Norman castle right on your doorstep, then you try standing up and telling him you don’t want to go.
He was right about one thing, though. The wall walk was the highest point of the castle and it did give you a terrific view of the town below.
I could see the houses and shops on either side of the high street and, further down the hill, the tower of St Mary’s Church. To the right of that was the archway of the old east gate.
And far below, at the bottom of town, I could make out Totnes Bridge and the river Dart, licking its way towards the sea like a huge, grey tongue.
I was just hoping Tucker might cut this lecture short – since it was so hot – when he went blundering on.
‘That walled area of grassy land at the base of the motte is what’s called the bailey. As you can see, it’s now an empty space but in Norman times it would have had lots of things in it. Who can tell me some of the buildings we might have found there?’
‘Burger King, sir?’ said Cal.
‘Very funny, Calvin.’
‘Lodgings, sir,’ said Ellie.
‘Good!’ said Tucker. ‘What else?’
Silence.
‘They’d have had to eat, wouldn’t they?’
‘A kitchen, sir!’ said Gemma.
‘Well done, Gemma. What else?’
Another silence.
‘Come on,’ said Tucker. ‘I know it’s hot but switch your brains on. There’d have been lots of other buildings in the bailey. The place would have been a hive of activity.’
The only activity I could think of right now was the movement of sweat down my neck. But it wasn’t from the heat. It was from the deepening unease I felt as the atmosphere of this place started to work upon me.
Something was wrong here. Something was terribly wrong. But I couldn’t pick up what it was. I felt a growing desire to run and keep running, anywhere just as long it was away from this place.
‘Still waiting,’ said Tucker brightly. ‘Yes, Damien?’
‘A hall, sir.’
‘Good. And?’
‘Stables,’ said Lawrence.
‘Storerooms,’ said Melanie.
‘That’s better,’ said Tucker, wiping his forehead. ‘And there’d have been other things too, which we’ll be talking about later when we get back to school. But let me just tell you a little bit about how the castle has developed over the centuries.’
Again I felt the atmosphere of the place work upon me. The desire to run grew stronger. I felt as though someone I didn’t know was close to me, very close, and watching me intently. Yet I could see no one apart from the familiar faces from my class, and Mr Tucker. I looked at him, willing him to take us away from here.
But he went on, unaware of my distress. I tried to push aside my fear by focusing rigidly on what he was saying. He was a good history teacher, as long as you didn’t stand too near him when he was in full flow. If you did that, you got caught by the little jets of spit that came whizzing out through the gaps in his teeth.
But even Mr Tucker – with all his enthusiasm – couldn’t make Totnes Castle sound anything other than completely boring.
As far as I could tell from what he was saying, nothing exciting had ever happened here in over a thousand years. No one had laid siege to the place, tried to blow it up, take it over or do anything to it. Of all the castles in England, it had to be the one with the sleepiest history. So why was I feeling so frightened?
I glanced round at the rest of the group. They looked hot and tired, though they were all dutifully listening. I caught Cal’s eye and forced myself to smile at him. He grinned back. Tucker picked up our little exchange at once.
‘Do I have your full attention, Will?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered. ‘Motte and bailey castle dating from the early months of 1068.’
‘And who had it built?’
‘The Normans, sir.’
‘Thank you. But pay better attention. You too, Calvin.’
And Tucker went rambling on. But this time I didn’t hear a word. Something had suddenly happened to me.
Someone had stepped inside me.
That was the only way to describe it. It was like a shiver that ran through every part of me – my muscles, my bones, my skin, even my brain.
I saw Cal watching me strangely and I could tell he knew something was wrong. The rest of the class went on listening to Tucker and seemed unaware of what was happening to me. I was breathing hard now, my mind on this shivery feeling inside me. Then I heard a voice. It seemed to come from inside my head.
‘Help me,’ it said.
I stiffened and looked around me. For a moment the old stone walls of the castle seemed to darken, as though a shadow had fallen upon them. What was happening? This was meant to be a bright June morning.
I took a step to the left and to my relief felt the shivery presence leave me. The walls brightened again and I breathed slowly out.
Tucker was telling us to go off and find the things on our worksheets. ‘Meet by the gate in half an hour,’ he said. And the group split up. Cal came straight over.
‘You all right, Will?’ he said. ‘You went white just now.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Are you sure? Your face seemed to sort of change. Almost like you were another person.’
I looked away. That was just how it had felt. Like I was another person. I hoped the shivery presence wouldn’t come back.
But it did. Only minutes later. Most of the group, including Cal, had gone down to look at the bailey but I was still up on the wall walk. And there it was again – the cold presence, the urgent voice inside me.
‘Help me,’ it said.
It was a boy’s voice. It sounded like someone about fourteen like me. It even felt like my own voice. But that was daft. My lips weren’t moving. Then suddenly – to my horror – they were.
‘Help me,’ they said. ‘Help me.’
‘Talking to yourself again, Will?’ said Ellie, sauntering past me. She didn’t stop and the voice spoke again through my lips.
‘Help me.’
The dusky shadow was falling again, this time over the whole town. The outlines of the houses and shops, the east gate, the river Dart – all seemed to tremble and lose their shape. In spite of the heat, a chill started to creep over me. I began to shake. Then I heard another voice.
‘Will!’
I turned and saw Cal standing below me in the castle keep. To my relief, the darkness seemed to clear, the heat of the day returned, and the shivery presence slipped away once more. Cal called up again.
‘Come on, Will! We’re all waiting for you!’
‘But Tucker said to meet in half an hour.’
‘You’ve been up there forty-five minutes! I’ve been sent to get you. Hurry up or you’ll cop it!’
I stared down at him. Forty-five minutes? That couldn’t be right. Tucker had only told us to wander off a few minutes ago. Or so it felt. I hurried down the steps to join Cal. He glanced at my worksheet and frowned.
‘You haven’t done any of the tasks,’ he said. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’ He looked me over suddenly. ‘You still look white. You sure you’re not ill?’
I turned away. I couldn’t talk about what had happened, not even to Cal. He’d think I was crazy.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
I hurried down the steps to the bailey where the others were waiting by the gate. Tucker gave me a sardonic look.
‘Kind of you to join us, Will – eventually.’ He glanced round at the others. ‘Now can we not dawdle on the way back to school? We’re a little bit later leaving than I intended. Thanks to a certain person.’ His eyes flickered in my direction again.
But I was already hurrying towards the gate. I couldn’t get out of this place quick enough. Whatever was in there, whatever it was that had taken me over, I wanted to leave it behind at the castle. I wanted it to stay there for good.
But it came with me.
It seemed to walk through my feet, breathe through my breath, think through my thoughts. It whispered and murmured inside me, and its words were coming out through my own mouth.
‘He killed them,’ I was saying. ‘He threw them in the river by the ford.’
Cal and Ellie were walking beside me. I saw them glance at me but my mind was not on them. It was on the dark veil falling once more over the buildings and streets of Totnes. And the chill that came with it.
‘Will?’ said Cal. ‘You’re talking to yourself.’
‘He was doing that up on the wall walk,’ said Ellie.
I tried to respond but found I could not.
‘Will?’ said Ellie. ‘What’s happening?’
I heard the fear in her voice. The shivery presence moved inside me but did not go. I heard Cal shout ahead to Mr Tucker.
‘Sir! Something’s wrong with Will!’
‘Have you only just discovered that, Calvin?’
‘Sir! It’s serious!’
Tucker was with me moments later. He was like a !shadow now, just as Cal and Ellie and my classmates had become shadows. And as they closed round, I saw other shadows. The shadows of another life. A life I did not understand and wanted no part of. The voice spoke through me again.
‘He killed them. He threw them in the river by the ford. I never saw them again.’
‘Easy, Will,’ said Tucker. ‘Easy now.’
I felt his arm slip round my shoulder, saw the !shadow of his face draw close. The shivery presence moved up my spine like a rush of air. I opened my mouth to speak. Then remembered no more.
I’m trying to pretend yesterday didn’t happen. Trouble is, they won’t let me. I thought all I’ve got to do is keep out of the way, say nothing, and they’ll see I’m safe; and I am safe, I’m totally safe, I just want to get on with my own stuff. I’m indoors most of the time anyway. I’m not called Mole for nothing. So what’s to worry about? They could leave me alone and everything would be fine, but no. The email stares at me from the screen.
We gotta talk.
Then a phone number, a mobile. I check the email address again. Nothing that gives away a name, just random letters and numbers. I think back to yesterday, read the email again, click Reply and type an answer.
Nothing to talk about.
But that won’t do. I delete the words and try again.
I won’t say anything.
That feels wrong too. I listen to the sounds in the house: Dad washing up the supper things downstairs, Mum walking up and down the hall, talking on the phone. I’m just wondering where Meggie is when she knocks on my door.
‘What you doing, big guy?’ she calls.
I quickly cancel the unsent email and switch off the computer.
‘Nothing much.’
She comes in and walks over. She’s got a dressing gown on and a towel round her neck and her hair’s wet from the shower. She puts a hand on my shoulder.
‘Nothing much?’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
She pulls up a chair next to me.
‘You OK?’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Just switched off your computer?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Screen light’s still on.’
I switch off the screen. She looks over my desk, picks up the top book from the pile.
‘I know,’ she says, glancing over it, ‘nosy little sister.’
‘I don’t mind you being nosy.’
She studies the book cover.
‘Treasure Island. You must have read this nine times, Mikey.’
More like twenty-nine times, but I don’t tell Meggie that. She puts the book down again and turns to me.
‘So what happened yesterday, big guy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You were doing great,’ she says. ‘Mum and Dad are really pleased with the way you’re trying to face things. But I didn’t tell them how quiet you were coming back, how you were like…closed up. Was it that bad, where we went?’
‘I chose the place, so it’s my fault if it was.’
Meggie frowned.
‘Maybe I should have fought you harder and taken you somewhere else. I was really worried when you told me where you wanted to go, Mikey, so noisy and crowded and everything, all the things that freak you out, normally. I thought you were being a bit overambitious.’
She’s probably right – she usually is – but I was trying to show some bottle. I thought – I’ll choose a tough place, a really tough place, all the things that scare the pants off me, and it’ll be a real test for me to see if I can handle it, and I was handling it, sort of, till the stuff happened. I don’t answer Meggie. Don’t know what to say to her.
‘Mikey?’
‘Call me Mole like everyone else does.’
‘Mum and Dad don’t call you Mole, and I’m not going to either.’
I stare into Meggie’s face. It’s so hard to think of her as thirteen. She seems two years older than me rather than two years younger, but it’s always been that way. It’s only when she’s got Lucy and her other mates round and they go all girlie that she seems her true age. I hear another knock at the door, then Mum puts her head round.
‘Making hot drinks,’ she says. ‘Anybody interested?’
‘Cocoa, please,’ says Meggie.
‘Mikey?’
‘Hot chocolate, please.’
‘Come down in ten minutes.’
And Mum closes the door. Meggie stands up, rubbing her hair with the towel.
‘Mikey, you still haven’t told me what went wrong yesterday.’
And I can’t. I can’t get Meggie involved, or Mum and Dad. I’ve got to think what to do, and I need time for that. It’s complicated, really complicated. I’m hoping it’ll be one of those things that’ll go away if I don’t do anything. Once they see I haven’t said or done anything, they’ll work out I’m no danger. I stare at the blank computer screen.
We gotta talk.
It’s like the words are hiding there, even with the thing switched off. I feel Meggie’s hand on my shoulder again.
‘You were doing really well, Mikey,’ she says. ‘You managed half an hour at that place. That’s good, that’s really good. Maybe that’s what scared you a bit. You’re not used to it. But I was with you going and coming back, and we can do it again, tomorrow maybe, after school. We could go to the same place, so you get used to it, or maybe another place. Somewhere you feel really safe.’
I feel Meggie’s hand leave my shoulder.
‘See you downstairs,’ she says.
And she’s gone. I switch on the computer again, call up my emails, and there’s another one: same meaningless address, but some new words.
Ring the number.
I stare at the message, call up the old one. The mobile number sits on the screen, waiting. I lean back in the chair. Outside in Denbury Close all is quiet. I stand up, walk to the window, and peer out. Darkness has fallen over the neat, familiar road. All my life it’s seemed safe and reassuring; suddenly it doesn’t. The clean cars, the well-tended gardens, the double garages, the immaculate houses – all seem hostile now. For the first time I see how many places there are to hide round here.
I make my way downstairs. They’re all in the sitting room and their silence matches the silence in the close outside. We have our hot drinks. Dad does the crossword, Mum the Sudoku, Meggie texts her friends. I stare at the fire, the only thing making any noise right now.
‘One for you here, Mikey,’ says Dad suddenly.
I look round at him, but he’s still studying the crossword. He reads out the clue.
‘Name of the ship in Treasure Island. Ten letters.’
‘Hispaniola.’
Mum chuckles, but says nothing.
‘Thanks,’ says Dad.
And they all carry on, Dad with his crossword, Mum with her Sudoku, Meggie with her texting. The fire goes slowly down. Back in my room later, as I make ready for bed, I switch on my computer again. There are four more emails from the same address. But it’s just one message, repeated four times.
Talk to us and live mikey. Talk to anyone else and people gonna die. Including you xxx
The darkness feels good. I burrow down deep in the bed. I like being called Mole. I know they mean it as an insult but I don’t care. Moles do what I like doing. It’s natural for them and it’s natural for me. The thing is, if you don’t have the fear, you can’t understand the fear. That’s what pisses me off about my shrink. He might have studied case histories of other people like me but he can’t really understand what we go through unless he feels the fear himself.
And he doesn’t. He’s got no idea. He goes out of his house like almost everybody else does, and he never thinks twice about the terrifying openness of the world, the great, yawning void. He studies his cases and talks to his patients and gives us all his clever, wordy advice, and then he goes out and gets on with his brilliant life. I say ‘us all’ as if I know his other patients, but of course I don’t. I never see them. Most of the time I don’t even make it to his clinic.
Unless Meggie can get time off school and come with me. Usually he comes here, which is more expensive for Mum and Dad, and I feel bad about that, even though they tell me it doesn’t matter. But I guess it’s not so much of a problem now that he’s stopped coming so often. He insists I’m making progress and he doesn’t need to see me so regularly, but he knows and I know that he’s given up, because I’m making no progress at all, and the fear’s still there, only it’s bigger. It’s turned into terror.
That’s why books console me, specially novels by authors from another age, like Charles Dickens and Herman Melville. The people in their stories aren’t real and the people who wrote them are long dead, so they don’t feel real either. I’m never going to meet any of them outside of books, never going to have to deal with them face to face. So books are safe, and when I read, I feel safe too. Till I close the book.
The darkness folds around me, and now the warmth of the bed, and the silence outside in the close, and in my room. But the words don’t go away. I see them against the blackness, just as they appeared on my computer screen, and they seem to speak aloud to me, like strange robotic voices in my ear.
‘Talk to us and live, Mikey,’ they say mechanically. ‘Talk to anyone else and people gonna die. Including you.’
Yeah, right. I believe the second and third bit, so I’m keeping quiet there, but the first bit? Talk to us and live? I’m not stupid. I know what’ll happen if I make contact with these people. So ringing won’t help. Ringing will just bring them nearer, and they’re near already. I can feel them close. I push my head out from the covers and peer about the dark room.
That’s something that always chills me: how the darkness fades the longer you’re in it. I don’t want the darkness to fade; I want it to stay as black as possible, so it hides me really well, but it always eases, even after I’ve had my head under the covers. The room’s clearer than the last time I saw it, and if it’s clear for me, it could be clear for somebody else hiding here.
I stare round at the murky shapes, growing more visible by the minute. Nothing’s moving and everything’s still quiet outside the house. Doesn’t feel right, though. I slip out of bed, pull my dressing gown on over my pyjamas, and peep round the side of the curtain into Denbury Close. Nothing moving down below, nothing I can see. I look up at the sky. Dull clouds, no stars or moon.
There should be much more darkness than this outside. I don’t like it when everything’s so clear. I leave the window and walk over to the bookshelves. I know where my books are by feel alone, every single one of them, but right now I can even see the writing on the spines, the books with larger lettering anyway. I wish I couldn’t. This darkness is just too bright. I run my eye over the titles.
Oliver Twist.
I pull the book down. It’s not my favourite Charles Dickens but never mind. I take it over to the armchair in the corner, slump down with my legs pulled into my chest, and hug the book in the darkness. After a while I hear footsteps on the landing: Meggie’s, heading for the loo. Just as well I’ve got the light off or she’d see it and come and check I’m OK, and I’m not. Right now I’m a long way from OK. I open the book, stare at the blurry text, but the only words I pick up are the ones chanting in my head. People gonna die, people gonna die.
Die, die, die.
I close the book, hug it again, then hear the click of the bathroom door and Meggie’s footsteps once more, only they’re not heading back to her room: they’re heading this way. A pause outside my door, then it quietly opens and I see her head appear in the gap. But she doesn’t see me. She’s staring towards the bed. It takes her a few moments to realise I’m not there, then she turns, quickly, as if in a panic.
‘I’m over here, Meggie.’
She sees me curled up on the chair.
‘Mikey,’ she says, with obvious relief,’ what you doing sitting in the dark?’
‘What you doing checking me out?’
She closes the door behind her and walks over.
‘I often check to see if you’re sleeping,’ she says.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘That’s because you’re always sleeping when I look in.’
‘So why do you check, then?’
‘I check when I’m worried about you.’
‘But if I’m always sleeping when you look in,’ I say, ‘there’s obviously nothing to worry about.’
I don’t mention the times I’ve sat here in the darkness on the nights when she didn’t check.
‘I just know you often don’t sleep,’ she says. ‘So I’m guessing you curl up on that chair and think and worry, even if I haven’t seen you doing it.’
‘You don’t know I do that.’
‘You’re doing it now.’
I don’t answer.
‘What are you hugging to yourself?’ she says suddenly.
I hold out the book. She takes it and stares at the jacket.
‘Can’t read this,’ she says eventually. ‘Too dark.’
‘Don’t put on the light.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
She hands it back to me and stands there, looking down. Yet again I wonder at her being thirteen. It’s almost like Mum standing next to me. She reaches out suddenly and ruffles my hair. Like Mum does.
‘It’ll be OK, Mikey,’ she says, and she quietly leaves the room. I wait till I hear her own door click, then pull the book back into my chest and close my eyes.
‘Die, die, die,’ say the words in my head.
‘A taut thriller.’
Financial Times
‘Pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until long after you’ve finished reading.’
The Bookbag
‘A superb exploration inside a teenage mind, tense and gripping.’
Parents in Touch
‘Very tense thriller with an incredibly unusual hero, and a great brother-sister relationship.’
Fluttering Butterflies blog
‘A fast paced, thriller to keep you on your toes.’
Georgia May, Teen Book Hoots Blog
‘Tim Bowler is very engaging and his writing style makes the most of the unusual characters.’
Elinor Nash, My Book Corner
‘A beautifully crafted, powerful story that is both gripping and poignant.’
Armadillo Magazine
‘Game Changer is a fantastic thriller from Tim Bowler, the story is tense and exciting and the characters engaging.’ Frances Breslin Davda, The School Librarian
‘A skilfully paced thriller…’
Robert Dunbar, Irish Times website
Game Changer is a story about extreme fear. It was inspired by an article I read many years ago about a woman who was frightened not just of going outside the house but of daylight itself. I felt a huge sympathy for this lady and found myself wondering how anyone could possibly get through life with such terror of what lies beyond the front door. What would that person do? How would he or she cope? The character of Mikey grew out of these questions and before long I was writing Chapter One and he was up to his neck in trouble already. I knew that in the face of such crippling fears he was going to have to be an exceptionally brave young man, and he is exceptionally brave. For Mikey, just walking from the house to the car is brave, and in Game Changer he manages much more than that. He has to because I discovered as I wrote that it’s not just daylight that torments him. It’s the gang whose secret he has been unlucky enough to find out. The gang who know he knows, and where lives, and who he loves most. The gang who will stop at nothing to make sure he is silenced.
Tim Bowler
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