The Kid Who Came From Space

Before we reach it, the massive splash comes.

It’s huge – like a car has been dropped into the water from a great height over on the other side of the reservoir.

Obviously, it isn’t a car. But – equally obviously – I don’t think it’s an invisible spaceship either, because I’m not completely mad.

But that is what it turns out to be.

After that splash about two hundred metres away, comes another one a few seconds later, slightly smaller but still enormous, and closer to our canoe. In the light of the rising moon, the water droplets glisten as they cascade back down. Seconds after, there is a third splash, then a fourth, all getting closer to us in a straight line, as though a massive, unseen stone is being skimmed across the surface. By the time the fifth splash comes, only about six metres from the boat, the resulting waves have started to tip our little canoe violently from side to side.

‘What’s happening?’ I wail.

Then the spray soaks us and we both cower in the bottom of the rocking boat. I feel, rather than see, something pass overhead very close to us, causing Suzy to squawk with alarm.

‘What is it?’ I shout.

Iggy makes no attempt to answer.

I raise my head to see the sixth splash on the other side of the canoe. The seventh is much smaller. Whatever is causing it is becoming less forceful. There’s an eighth splash, then a swoosh of water that washes over the jetty then … just nothing. Nothing but the darkening sky, the purple lake, the black-green of the surrounding forest …

… And silence, broken only by the slapping of rippling waves on the side of the canoe.

Eventually, Iggy straightens up and says ‘Good Lord! Did you see that?’, but I don’t know what we saw so I just end up moving my mouth without making any sound.

There’s nothing to see now, anyway: whatever caused the splashes must have sunk, but only about ten metres from the shore, where the water is shallower and fairly clear. Together, we paddle towards the spot: perhaps, despite the gathering darkness of the afternoon, we’ll be able to shine a light into the water and see something?

As we get closer, I hear a humming noise, and we stop, allowing the canoe to drift as I turn my head to hear better.

‘Listen,’ I hiss. ‘That’s it! The noise I heard on the night that Tammy disappeared.’

There it is again. A low hommmmm like a bee trapped behind a window, but almost inaudible.

Staring again in the direction of the sound, the surface of the water appears disturbed, and sort of indented, as though a huge glass plate is resting on the lake near the jetty, but it’s hard to make out in the half moonlight.

Then, as we drift closer to the shape in the water, the nose of the canoe bumps into something. Probably another floating log, I think, but when I look there’s nothing. Nor is there a rock. I take hold of the paddle again and stroke it through the water, but we are stopped again with a bump, by some kind of object we can’t see. From the sound the canoe makes, it’s as if this object is in front of us, sticking out of the water, but that’s impossible because we can’t see anything but air.

‘What is that? What’s stopping us, Tait? What are we hitting?’

When the canoe bumps into nothing for the third time, I decide to change the route and paddle around the triangle of smooth water. I stop before the canoe reaches the shore, then I turn back to look.

‘Pass me the spinner, Tait,’ says Iggy.

He takes the large fishing lure from me carefully, avoiding the vicious hooks, and pushes a tiny button on it, activating the laser light that is supposed to attract fish. He points it in front of us, towards whatever it is that we’re not seeing.

‘Oh my word. Would you look at that?’

I’m looking. The green beam of light heads straight out across the lake, takes a sharp left turn, then curves around to go straight again. Iggy moves the light and it does the same – deflected by something we cannot see.

I find a pebble on the floor of the canoe and toss it towards where Iggy is pointing the light. There’s a dull ping and it bounces back towards me, landing in the water with a plop.

It is exactly as though it had hit a pane of glass, only there’s no glass there. I throw another pebble and it does the same. Opening Iggy’s fishing tackle bag, I take out a big lead weight and throw that, hard. Same result.

We’re both freaked out by now. Then the humming lowers in tone, the water before us seems to churn up slightly, and the shape on the water heads towards our canoe.

‘Move! It’s coming for us!’ yells Iggy.

We both reach down for the same paddle, causing the canoe to lurch sharply to one side. In one smooth movement, Iggy and I are tipped into the dark water and we don’t even have time to shout out.

The cold doesn’t hit me immediately, but as I plunge beneath the surface I suck in half a lungful of water, and come up spluttering and weighed down by my heavy jacket and sweater. I’m just able to keep my face above the surface and that’s when I gasp at the freezing cold.

Between gasps, I call out, ‘Ig … Iggy!’ I think about us not wearing life jackets, and I’m consumed with fear.

A ball of red hair bobs up next to me, followed by Iggy’s terrified face.

‘Ah … ah … I’m here.’ He grabs on to me. ‘We go … gotta go. That thing’s ge … ge … getting closer.’ He can hardly speak with the cold. He starts to swim for the shore, then stops. ‘Wh … where’s Suzy?’ As he says the name, there’s a thumping from inside the upturned canoe.

‘Suzy!’ cries an anguished Iggy, and before I can say anything, he’s bobbed under the surface.

Seconds go by while I feel my clothes getting heavier and I am properly scared.

‘Iggy!’ I shout, and I turn a circle in the water. ‘Iiiiiggyyyy!’

I’m ready to scream again, when there comes a splash from beside the canoe. Iggy’s head reappears and next to it are the sodden red feathers of Suzy, who looks very startled.

I have ended up closer to the jetty than Iggy, and I’m finding it easier to swim than he is because he’s carrying Suzy. I heave myself up the slippery iron ladder, weighed down by my soaking clothes. I look back and that is when I notice the strange, half-visible shape on the surface of the water moving and getting closer to Iggy.

Iggy is only about fifteen metres away and I can see the look of sheer terror on his face as he realises what’s going on.

‘Swim, Iggy. Swim! D-don’t look back. Just swim!’

But he does look back and I think he’s frozen in terror for a second. Holding Suzy’s head up, he starts thrashing with his other arm and kicking with his legs.

‘Come on, Iggy! Come on – you can make it!’

Ten metres. Five. I can hear the humming noise now as whatever is making it cuts across the surface, getting closer with every stroke Iggy makes. I stretch out my hand.

‘You can make it – come on!’

Then he screams and, with a gurgle, lets go of Suzy and disappears below the black surface of the water.

Iggy reappears above the surface a few seconds later, making terrified noises. ‘It … it … got … got …’ He seems to struggle with something below the surface as if his legs are tangled.

Amazingly, his glasses have stayed on. He manages to get hold of Suzy and, one-armed, flaps the last two metres to the jetty, where I haul him up by his arm.

‘My … m-my le-leg,’ he moans. ‘It go … got me.’

Iggy left his bike light on the jetty. I grab it, shine it on his leg and recoil in horror.

‘Is … is it ba-bad?’ he says.

I nod. A huge, treble-barbed hook has embedded itself into his calf and has ripped out a long portion of flesh as he struggled. Somehow his leg got entwined in our fishing line and as he swam it hooked him as securely as any fish. Blood, mixed with the water draining from us, forms a red channel trickling back into the water. He reaches his hand down and moans again when he feels the warm blood.

‘Ca-call my mum,’ he croaks.

‘Sure, Iggy. Hang on. You’re going to be fine.’

I fumble in my soaking jeans pocket for my phone.

It’s not THAT bad, I keep telling myself. He’s not going to bleed to death right here on this jetty.

I jab the start button on my phone.

Smartphones and water are not a good mix. I try again. And again.

‘Where’s yours?’ I ask Iggy, whose breathing has become shallow, little pants.

‘My mu … mum’s confiscated it.’

That I can believe.

In desperation, I get to my feet and shout, ‘Help! Help!’ while Iggy pants and moans, lying on his back on the jetty.

‘No … no one’s going to hear you,’ pants Iggy at my feet, then he groans in pain again.

‘I’m going to run up to the road,’ I say. ‘There might be a car I can stop. Wait here.’

What am I even thinking? There are hardly ever any cars on that road, just forestry trucks now and then. Am I panicking? I am halfway up the steep path to the road when I realise that leaving an injured person, soaking wet and freezing cold, on a jetty in the dark is just stupid.

For a few seconds I actually hop from one foot to another, trying to work out what to do, until eventually I turn and scramble back down the path towards the beach. I can see Iggy lying where I left him, and then I stop and let out a small yelp.

Someone has just appeared on the jetty before me.

I know that sounds crazy, but it’s just like a magic trick or a special effect. One minute there’s only Iggy lying there. The next, this … this figure is there as well. It can’t have come from anywhere. I mean, there’s no other approach to the jetty than the route I took, and I didn’t pass anyone.

It is quite dark, though …

I am standing on the shore-end of the jetty when I hear the person speak. He or she hasn’t heard me approaching, is facing Iggy, and I don’t think Iggy has noticed me coming back either: he’s got other things on his mind, what with freezing and bleeding half to death. The person makes a weird snuffling, squeaking noise, followed by words.

‘I heard you. I will help.’

Iggy, who’s been facing the other way, propped up on his arm, spins round and then scuttles back in shock, slipping in his own blood.

I hurry to Iggy, passing close to the person on the jetty, who seems to be wearing a shaggy fur coat, but that’s all I notice at first: I’m more interested in getting to Iggy.

‘You OK?’ I say. ‘Sorry I left you. This person can help. That’s good, eh?’ I’m gabbling a bit and I don’t really understand the look of terror on Iggy’s face as he squints past me through his smudged, wet glasses at the figure who is still standing there.

Iggy can’t speak: ‘Tai … Tait. What … what …?’

His gaze is fixed on the person behind me and so I turn to look as well. What I see shocks me so much that I too stagger and slip, falling hard on my backside. I continue to scramble backwards to the end of the jetty, unable to take my eyes away from what I see, and – at the same time – desperate to put as much distance between me and it as possible.

Iggy cranes his neck around, but is unable to move as fast as me and so lies there, panting with terror.

This thing has a head, with a shining mass of long, silvery hair and, below it, a face. A human face. Well, human-ish: it is face-shaped, except hairy, with widely spaced pale eyes and a huge nose, twitching like a hamster’s.

I’m so scared that I think if I’d been a bit younger I’d have wet myself, but I don’t, thankfully.

It is definitely like a human. It’s got two legs and two arms for a start. Apart from the long head hair, the rest of its body is covered in a light, greyish, downy fur that seems to be standing up. From its back curls a long tail that moves like a cat’s. So, both like a human, and not at all like a human.

It stares at me with its large eyes for a bit and then casts its gaze about the forest, raising its nose to sniff the air. Then it turns back to us and takes a step nearer. Iggy and I both cower but it stops and carries on staring and sniffing. Then it shakes all over: a massive shiver that ripples its fur. Its top lip draws back, revealing long, sharp, yellow teeth.

I hear a whimpering sound. I don’t realise at first that it is me.

Iggy speaks first. ‘Who-who are you? What do you want? P-please don’t hurt me.’

The person-creature steps forward, and we creep backwards till we’re right at the end of the jetty and there’s nowhere else for us to go except into the water again. Even Suzy has backed away, after shaking as much water as she could from her feathers.

The creature leans forward till its head is only about a metre away. It takes a deep sniff then makes the same grunting and whining noise with its mouth and nose as before. That is immediately followed by: ‘You are alreatty hurt.’

The thing has a voice that is a strange combination of throaty and high-pitched. It pronounces the ‘r’ in words like are and hurt like Scottish Sheila in the village, and each word is precise, as though the language has been recently learned. It holds out a thin, hairy finger and points at Iggy’s bleeding leg.

Iggy can’t speak for fear.

‘To you want me to help?’ comes the voice again, after another brief snuffling and squeaking.

I can smell its breath: it’s like a dog’s – sort of sour and a bit fishy. Now and then it licks its lips with a long grey tongue.

Help? I’m not so sure. I’m thinking that I could scramble to my feet, and push this thing into the water, then run up the path for the bikes … Only Iggy is in no shape to run. I’d be leaving him here at the mercy of this … thing. He wouldn’t do that to me, I don’t think.

Iggy nods.

We both flinch when the creature raises both of its hands and brings forward a bag that was hooked on to its back, like a little backpack.

Racing through my head is this: This is what happened to Tammy. This thing is going to take us. It’s not a monster: it’s a person. It’s a weirdo dressed up in an outfit, and he’s going to bring out a knife or a gun or …

I stare closely. If this is a costume, where are the joins? Is there a zip somewhere? That’s a fake nose, surely? I’ve seen shows on TV where make-up artists create things like that. Prosthetic something or other. But why would anyone wander around Kielder Water in the dark like that unless they had bad intentions? Halloween maybe, but that was nearly two months ago.

Then, from the backpack, the creature brings out a stick: thickish, like a broom handle, smooth, dark, and about 30 centimetres long. It holds it in its fist and studies it for a moment while we tremble with cold and total fear. I feel Iggy’s hand grip mine and I grip back. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to go alone.

‘This may work, it may not,’ says the person-in-a-costume (I am convinced by now). ‘Your cellular structure iss almost itentical. Put your leck out.’

Iggy shrinks back and draws his leg in.

‘This will not hurt.’ The creature pauses. ‘Do it!’

Slowly, like a turtle coming out of its shell, Iggy extends his bloody leg. He’s whimpering with fear.

The throaty snuffle comes again, followed by the word ‘Light!’

It’s looking at me.

I reach for the torch. In addition to the long, open gash in Iggy’s leg, there is the hook still deeply embedded in his flesh. The blood is pouring out and on to the jetty.

The creature advances further, the rod in its hands, and moves it over the wounds. Then, as we watch, the blood seems to dry, and scab over. The huge fish hook with the lure attached is pushed out by the hardening flesh and falls on to the decking of the jetty. The scabs turn browner, then black, all in the space of about thirty seconds. The creature replaces the stick in its backpack; then, with a long finger, gently flicks at the scabs, which drop off, revealing fresh, pink skin underneath.

It stands up straight and I look at its feet. They are bare and hairy and definitely not fake ones slipped over shoes. He – she? – is smallish, but not tiny: not as tall as me. It isn’t hunched over and creepy like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings – not at all. And, though it is stark naked, it doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by the fact.

Without taking his eyes off the creature, Iggy says to me, ‘It’s a girl.’

‘How do you know?’

Iggy tuts. ‘Look, Tait. No, erm … boy’s bits.’

I hadn’t noticed, but he’s right. I feel oddly embarrassed, staring at it – her – like that. I feel myself blushing.

When she stands up, the still, cold air gives a waft of her smell. Blocked drains? Sour milk? Earwax? It’s all of those things blended together to make a rich, foul odour that is not just her breath: it is her.

‘Jeez, Iggy. She flippin’ stinks!’ I whisper.

Iggy has taken his cap off and is holding it to his nose.

‘Thought it was you at first,’ he says, his voice muffled.

Slowly, Iggy and I get to our feet and the three of us stand there in a little triangle, saying nothing – just, you know, being utterly astonished. Iggy flexes his newly cured leg.

Eventually, he jams his cap back on and pats his chest twice. ‘Me, Iggy,’ he says, and the creature blinks hard.

I could swear she’s thinking, Why is he talking like a halfwit?

All the same, taking my cue from Iggy, I point at myself and say, ‘Me, Ethan.’

I can’t precisely say how I know this, because it’s not like she gasps or blinks or anything, but I can tell she’s surprised. ‘Ee-fan?’ she says.

‘Yes.’

She lifts her chin then lowers it. The action is sort of like a nod, but done backwards. Then she says something that sounds like ‘Helly-ann’ and pats her own chest.

Iggy looks across at me, a triumphant smirk on his face. ‘See? That’s her name. Hellyann!’

But then we hear the shouts, and the dogs, and see the flashlights through the trees in the distance, coming down the path from the main road.

The look of pure terror that crosses the creature’s strange, furry face changes everything, I think.

‘Say nothing,’ she says in her squeaky snuffle.

‘What?’ says Iggy.

‘I say: say nothing. Say you haf not seen me. Lie. You people are good at that.’

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Who are you? And why should we lie?’

The dog noise is getting nearer, and a huge German Shepherd bursts out of the undergrowth, bounding along the pebble beach towards us.

I hear: ‘What is it, Sheba? What have you found?’

And the creature who says her name is Hellyann fixes me with her intense, pale gaze.

‘Because if you don’t, you’ll neffer see your sister again.’

My sister. Tammy.

Iggy was right. His fishing trip idea worked: for the past hour or so I had hardly thought about her.

But now, on a freezing evening as I stand dripping on to the wooden deck, it all comes flooding back into my head in a wave of sorrow as I remember why I am here.

‘I hate you!’

It is the last thing I said to Tammy. It bounces around in my head and it is the opposite of the truth.

My twin sister. My ‘other half’, Mam used to say, and she was right.

Tamara ‘Tammy’ Tait. Cool name, I think, mainly because of the alliteration. Tammy Tait. And since she went missing, seldom has an hour has passed when I haven’t thought about those three syllables.

An hour? Try five minutes. Try five seconds. It’s exhausting.

Then there will be times when I realise that I haven’t thought of Tammy for a few minutes, and that’s almost worse, so I force myself to replay her in my head, to listen to her again. The way she says ‘Oh, E-thaaaan!’ when she is annoyed with me for something (which is quite often); or how she farted in the bath once when we were little and laughed so hard that she banged her head on the tap, which made her laugh even more even though her head was bleeding.

Then I’ll end up thinking of the last few months, when we moved to Kielder, and started secondary school. We are now in different classes. She has friends who I don’t even know (and at least one who doesn’t even like me. It’s OK, Nadia Kowalski, the feeling’s mutual).

Then thinking of all that makes me sad again, which – weirdly – makes me feel better because it sort of makes up for forgetting to think about her all the time.

And when I am sad, I remember the last words I said to her: I hate you.

I haven’t told Mam that. It would upset her, and Mam and Dad are upset enough. The fact is, Tammy and I said we hated each other far more than we ever said we loved each other.

Which is not hard, because we never said we loved each other. Why would we? It would be like telling yourself.

Still, I wish I hate you hadn’t been the last thing I’d said to her.

It was Christmas Eve, and snow had fallen on the top moor. I think everyone was hoping that a big snowfall would cover the village and make it look like the front of a Christmas card, but it didn’t and, to be honest, it’s not that sort of village anyway.

Kielder is sort of spread out, with a mixture of old and new houses, and no typical ‘village street’ – you know, a baker, a butcher, and a sweet shop like you get in stories. Because of the forest and the lake and the observatory, there are loads of visitors in the summer, but most things shut down in the winter, like the tearooms, and the maze, and Mad Mick’s Mental Rentals, which hires out bikes. Tammy had taken to calling the village Boring-ville. She once said, ‘I don’t belong here. I’m a city person’, as if sleepy Tynemouth – where we used to live – was New York.

There is a pub, though, run by my mam and dad. The Stargazer is set back from the main road, with a swinging pub sign at the end of a short driveway, and a huge Christmas tree outside, and coloured lights in the windows and candles everywhere, because Mam is half-Danish and they’re obsessed with candles.

I can remember almost every detail of that evening, even though I wish I couldn’t. I have gone over it all with the police officers, with Mam, with Dad, with Gran, with reporters and most of all with myself: in my head, again and again and again.

So here goes, ‘one more time from the top’ – as Miss Swann, our music teacher, says.

It was five minutes past six in the evening. Mam had gone over to the pub, where there were going to be carols. Dad was going to dress up and Tammy and I were going to follow later, first going round to the old folks in the village to drop off a Christmas present from Mam and Dad. There was Scottish Sheila, Tommy Natrass and the Bell sisters. They all got a bottle of vodka with a label saying, Happy Christmas from Adam and Mel at the Stargazer.