My name is Dylan Towers and I'm a real life walking, talking, cliche. I'm a fifteen year-old kid, with greasy skin, spots and dull lifeless hair that will probably fall out before I'm thirty. My parents are divorced, my Mum's remarried a total spaz and I've been shipped off to stay with my nut-job Dad in Roundhay, Yorkshire. I'm a fully paid up member of the EMO club, someone hand me some black nail polish and mascara, please.
I haven't seen Dad since Mum walked out on him four years ago. He was a clergyman. Church of England, vicar of Saint Sepulchre's in Roundhay. He was sacked when allegations arose that he had beaten up the church organist, a handicapped guy in a wheelchair. Dad never denied it. He lost his job and was lucky not to go to jail. That was when Mum ran off, taking me with her. Dad never tried to get me back. I was relieved. Who wants to live with someone who beats up people in wheelchairs? Even Mum's new spazzy husband, Don, is a better role model. He's a physics teacher in Slough.
I don't like Don. I liked him even less when he told me I wasn't invited on the honeymoon to America. That trip might have been enough to make me like him, but he had to blow it and persuade Mum to let Dad have me back for the month they were away.
I wasn't happy about going to Dad. Even before he went nuts, he was a pain in the crack, he never let me sing at the table, telling me it was an affront to 'him upstairs'. He wouldn't let me read Harry Potter or watch the Simpsons or Hollyoaks. He didn't like my choice of music, and once, when I bought home a CD by Arcade Fire, he brought it back to the shop and exchanged it for Bach's Brandenburg Concertos, which aren't bad, I confess, but that's hardly the point. When the other kids in your class are chilling out to Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, or Bright Eyes, or even Leona Lewis, you can imagine the looks you get when you start raving on about how cool Chopin's Nocturnes are. It doesn't go down well and you end up with a reputation as a geek and a square. At the time of the break-up, I thought the divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me. Now here I was, back in the old neighbourhood.
Of course, Dad had lost the vicarage when he lost his job and now he was living at the end of a cul-de-sac off the back of Lidgett Lane. Mum parked the car in front of a run down two up two down semi. She turned to look at me and said something. I couldn't hear a word. I was listening to The Felice Brothers on my MP4. I pulled out an earphone.
"What?"
She looked irritated. She usually does, when I choose music over small talk. "I said, are you sure you're okay with this, Dilly?"
I nodded and replaced the earphone.
"Great. Here we are then. Put the walkman away. You know how silly your Dad gets about things like that."
"It's an MP4," I corrected her. "I don't even know what a walkman is."
We got out of the car and looked at the house. The wooden gate was rotten. The house needed a fresh lick of paint and the garden was a mass of weeds. I was in hell.
Dad came out of the garage then and waved at us. He looked more or less the same. A little thinner perhaps, and older. He'd lost most of his hair and he wasn't wearing his old dog collar. Instead he was wearing oily overalls. He came down to greet us.
"Hey, here he is. Daddy's little helper. And how are you, little man?"
"I'm not a little kid, Dad," I said, forcing a smile.
He looked at me properly for the first time and nodded. "You're right." Then he turned to Mum. "What have you been feeding him, Emma? Fertilizer? He's shot up."
Mum didn't return his smile. "You haven't seen him in four years, Tony. Of course he's grown."
Dad looked as uncomfortable as I felt. "Yes. I know. So, how's my number one girl?"
The poor old duffer, he just couldn't pick the right thing to say.
"I'm not your girl anymore, Tony." She flashed her wedding ring at him and smiled like a wolf. I think she was enjoying his pain. Maybe he deserved it and all but I actually felt sorry for him.
"Of course. Silly me. And how is Dan?"
"Don. He's great."
Dad winked at me. "I hope he knows how lucky he is. I was going to make tea. Come on in and join me."
Mom looked at her watch and shook her head. "No time. I should be going. I don't want to be late."
I saw a glint of steel in Dad's eyes. He never did like it when things didn't go his way. It seemed like he hadn't changed. "One rotten cup of tea. Come on. Don can spare you that long."
Mum looked at me and then nodded. She didn't look happy. "Fine. One cup, but I'll have to be quick."
You see what I mean? EMO hell. Is it any wonder I'm gloomier than that chick in the Twilight movies? Not that I've seen them, that is, or read the books. Well, I did read the first one, but it was by mistake and... anyway, that's none of your business.
The hallway wasn't impressive. A bare lightbulb and cracked lino on the floor. There was a cheap painting of a blonde Aryan looking Jesus, hanging, crooked, on the wall, with the words 'A friend who will never let you down' written on it. I followed Mum and Dad into the kitchen. It was filthy. Dirty dishes stacked high in the sink and dirty laundry piled up all around a grimy washing machine. The kitchen table was covered in junk mail and the contents of Dad's tool kit.
I moved a pile of newspapers off a chair and sat down. "No tea for me," I said.
"Me neither," said Mum. She didn't bother sitting down. "Look, Tony, I don't want you getting ideas. This is just for the month. While we're away. The minute we get back, Dylan comes home to me."
Dad filled the kettle. "Fine, Princess. You sure I can't tempt you with tea? It's Earl Grey. I know you like it."
"No. Listen, Tony, did you never think about getting someone in to help you clean up?"
Dad shrugged. "Why? It's not that bad. Dylan can give it a quick wipe down with a cloth later."
"Thanks, Dad. I've been looking forward to it."
He came over and ruffled my hair with his knuckles. "That's my boy. You want to play football in the garden? I cleared some space for you."
"No thanks. Where's my room?" I just wanted to escape from the two of them.
Mum put her arm around me and kissed the top of my head. "I've got to go now. I'll leave you to show Dylan around." She bent down to look into my eyes as she cupped my face in her hands. "Be good. And if you need anything, you've got my number."
I nodded. "Yes, Mum. Have fun." I let her kiss my cheek and then I kissed her back.
She pulled away from me then and turned to Dad. "The same goes for you. If there's any trouble, call me."
Dad laughed. "Trouble? Don't worry, we'll be fine. Goodbye Emma."
I don't think either of them knew how to say goodbye. Mum offered her cheek for him to kiss and he offered his hand. In the end they shook hands. It was sad. Mum had tears in her eyes as she left. I don't know if they were real or if she was doing it because that's how people are supposed to act in these situations. I'd like to think they were real.
My room wasn't much but it was better than the kitchen. Dad had brought my old bed from the vicarage. It still had the old football stickers on the headboard. He'd stuck up some lop-sided shelves on the wall and put a Gideon's Bible on it. There wasn't a carpet, just plain unvarnished floorboards. No telly either. That would mean I'd have to watch whatever he was watching downstairs. A diet of news, documentaries and Songs of Praise awaited me. Can you give me hallelujah? I unpacked my bag and lay on the bed, listening to the Felice Brothers again.
Dad called me down at six o'clock for dinner. He'd been busy cleaning. The kitchen wasn't going to win any hygiene awards but at least your feet didn't stick to the floor anymore. After four years down south, I had been hoping for fish and chips from the local chippy but even this small request was denied to me.
"Fish and chips?" said Dad, rolling his eyes. "Deep fried rubbish. You're going to have some real food for a change." He lifted two fish cakes out of the pan and dumped them on my plate next to the peas. "That's brain food, Dylan. A month with me and you'll be brainier than Einstein." We bowed our heads while Dad said grace.
I took a bite. It wasn't impressive. "They're still frozen in the middle."
He cut into his and chewed it carefully. "You're right. How cool is that, eh? It's like fish flavoured ice cream without the cholesterol."
Dad left me to wash up, while he went into the living room to watch the news. When I joined him, the television reporter was standing in front of Limewood Park, just down the road from us.
"The people of Roundhay, in West Yorkshire can sleep soundly in their beds tonight, safe in the knowledge that a new hero is keeping their streets safe from crime," said the reporter. The screen then showed CCTV images of some goon in what looked like a Ku Klux Klan outfit, hitting a man over the head with a stick, while an old lady looked on, picking up her shopping from the ground. The reporter came back on screen again. "This man, who calls himself the Guardian Angel, struck last night, outside Limewood Park, saving a pensioner from two muggers. This is just the latest in a string of attacks on criminals in the area over the last few weeks."
"What an idiot," I said. "He looks like he's in the Ku Klux Klan."
"No he doesn't," snapped Dad. "He looks like an Inquisitor, from the Spanish Inquisition. A soldier of the church."
"Whatever."
The reporter was now standing in front of Chapeltown Police Station, talking to a woman in uniform. "Public opinion is divided on the subject of this vigilante. Police Superintendent Iris Hughes, has called for the Guardian Angel to give himself up to the authorities before somebody gets seriously hurt."
"That's right," said the woman in uniform. "This man is probably acting with what he believes are good intentions, but if he continues flouting the law he will be arrested."
The reporter then asked the woman how she felt about those people on the council that had called for the Guardian Angel to be given the keys to the city.
"He will not be getting any keys," she said, eyes blazing. "In fact if he continues, we will lock him up in a room, and take away the key."
"Silly cow," I snorted.
"Language, Dylan," said Dad, raising an eyebrow.
I didn't reply. It was going to be a long four weeks. I looked at my watch. Time had slowed down to a snail's pace since my arrival.
"Maybe you should have an early night," said Dad.
"It's half past six, Dad," I said.
"The early bird catches the worm, son."
I stomped back to my room. No computer, no telly, no friends. Nothing.
I dozed off, fully clothed, lying on my bed. When I woke up it was dark. I looked at my watch. It was twenty to twelve. I'd never be able to get back to sleep now. I walked over to the window and peered out into the cul-de-sac. Quiet as the grave. No. I was wrong. There, under the street lamp stood a man in a raincoat and large hat, smoking a cigarette. He was taller than most men. Why was he wearing a coat in the middle of summer? He must be boiling. Either that or he was really old. Old people feel the cold, apparently. It looked as if he was breathing fire. It must have been a trick of the light, messing with the burning end of his cigarette. As I watched, another identical figure joined him. They were looking at our house. One of them looked up at my window and I stepped back into the shadows. I didn't want them to know I was watching them. After a moment I crept back to the window. They were gone. I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was then that the world erupted beneath me. It sounded like an atom bomb. I was lifted off my feet by a hot blast of air, and crashed against the wardrobe. I lifted my hand to my head and found shards of glass in my hair. The window had been shattered. I stood up and ran unsteadily to the door. A flickering light came from the living room downstairs. Then I caught the smell of smoke and petrol. Someone had firebombed Dad's house. The flames reached the hallway. There was no way I could get out by going down.
I reached for the handle to Dad's room and cried out as a hand clasped itself across my mouth. I kicked out and my heel connected with my assailant's ankle. He cried out and I span around.
It was the nutter from the telly. The Guardian Angel. The one who looked like a white supremacist. "Come with me," he said, grabbing my hand.
"Not without my Dad," I said, pulling myself free and opening the bedroom door. It was empty. When I turned around, the Guardian Angel had removed his stupid pointy hood. "Dad?"
"We've got to get out of here," he said. He led me into the bathroom and pushed open the window. He leaned out and looked down into the back garden, then he stood back and pushed me forward. "Climb out and jump."
"Dad, what's going on? I thought you were better now."
"We'll talk when we're safe. The fire's spreading."
For once he was talking sense. I climbed out of the bathroom window and perched on the ledge. It was quite a drop.
"Go on. What are you waiting for?" he whispered.
I jumped and landed heavily, slapping my hands on the concrete patio. "Argh." I stood up, my hands stinging. At least I hadn't broken anything. I looked up at the window. Dad had put his stupid hood back on and was perched there like a sinister idiot from a nightmare. He leaped down, his skirts billowing like a parachute. He landed noiselessly beside me. "Come on, it's not safe here."
He opened the back gate and we slipped out into the ginnel that ran along the back of the street. It was dark as hell and the only thing I could see was Dad's sheet in front of me. I held onto it. The smell of smoke was strong in my nostrils. Burglar or fire alarms were going off all down the street and I could hear the siren of a fire engine approaching.
"What's happening Dad? We can't just leave the house."
"Yes we can."
We came out of the ginnel on the edge of Gipton Woods. I had always hated those woods, ever since I was eight years old and a group of teenagers had chased me through there, taking pot shots at me with an air pistol. They hadn't hit me, but I do remember they killed a squirrel that day. We came to a halt by a storm drain. Dad entered it.
"I'm not going in there," I said. "It stinks."
"It's safe."
I followed him. My life had gone from bad to worse. Life really does stink.