Tribute to Elegba... chapter six...

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John opened his eyes. So the first night passed in a new place, in a new city, in a new house. Yesterday flashed through the memory in one cloudy spot, as if it were not reality, but one long, tangled night dream that could be hardly remembered in detail after wake up. The boy felt a terrible weakness, which is usually felt by people who have slept too long. Nevertheless, John found the strength to immediately get up, look around and try to remember where he was at all.

It was a large bright room. The beautiful, strange furniture surrounded a big, huge, by John’s point of view, bed that could easily fit at least five orphans from the orphanage. There also were paintings on the walls, a beige carpet with long pile covering the floor: the whole interior fascinated and at the same time frightened the boy. In the middle of the room was a round table made of dark glass, on which were a cup of cold tea and some small book. The curtains on either side of the wide window were left open, and a bright light was already filtering into the room, illuminating all the fresh white of its shades.

It was in this room that Mr. Gregory Grantchester placed John when he brought the orphan boy to Riddlehill last night. As far as John understood from the explanation, not very detailed and very hasty, Mr. Grantchester rented this house, since he himself did not live in Riddlehill and also came here as a guest. When asked why he went to Riddlehill, John never got an answer, but Mr. Grantchester made it clear that there were important reasons for this, although he did not explain what they were. Basically, the phrase “Trust me” sounded from his lips, and the boy had no choice but to obey.

Being in such a chic (John simply could not find another word for it) room after the dormitory of the orphanage and its cold old rooms suddenly was uncomfortable and unusual. The boy felt like a fish taken out of the water onto dry land. At the same time, from the understanding that he no longer had to endure the ridicule of roommates, sidelong glances in the corridor and the feeling of fear that cruel hooligans would attack from the back upon leaving the dormitory, John also was calm at heart. Such a double feeling flickered in the boy, who, after a few moments, fully woke up from sleep and got out of bed, finding himself naked. There was a large wardrobe in the far corner, and John immediately realized that it was worth looking into. There he found a soft sweater, which turned out to be too big for him, a red plaid shirt and old worn jeans. Putting on a shirt and jeans, John no longer wanted to stay in this too large room and went outside of it.

The corridor leading to the living room turned out to be very dark: almost no sunlight penetrated here. But still, there was something to be seen. The burgundy walls were hung with sconces, along the walls there were many paintings in a row, as if the owner of this house was a big fan of art. It is unlikely that the boy understood painting: some images seemed completely incomprehensible to him, for example, a picture in which there were innumerable blurs and smudges. But the canvas with a man and a woman flying over the city in the sky attracted John's attention and made him stop. The boy, approaching closely to the picture and practically touching the image with his nose in order to try to see the details in the darkness, could not take his eyes off the interesting composition for about a minute. The boy heard little about love and happiness, but it seemed to him that this is how they should look like. Happy people break away from everything that happens around and remain in the world alone with each other. Perhaps John will meet his love someday. A chill ran through his skin. The boy smiled and, after looking at the picture for a couple of seconds more, went to the arch leading to the living room.

There was no one in the living room. There was deathly silence, in which John's every step, his every breathe in and out, was heard. It was also a white, simply gleaming clean room, spacious and just as uncomfortable in its comfort: a large black leather sofa stood opposite a widescreen TV attached to the wall, a fireplace decorated to look like gray brickwork, a small coffee table oval, a large bookcase filled to capacity with books of various sizes and formats, and against the far wall was a shelf with at least a dozen different photographs, each framed with the word "Grantchester" engraved on it. In a blue-framed photograph in the middle of the shelf, there were three young men dressed in very old fashion, in white shirts, high trousers with suspenders, black hats, a stranger with a walking stick stood on the edge. The quality of the photo left much to be desired, moreover, the image was black and white, but it hardly seemed strange to John, perhaps when creating the photo, the customers wanted just such an antique style. In any case, the photo seemed successful and the young people looked happy and smiled in it. Another photo showed a very young girl, also with a happy smile, raising her arms to the sides, as if depicting a bird ready to take off at any moment. John did not look at all the photographs, but even now, it became clear that many of them depicted Mr. Gregory Grantchester, a young and incredibly handsome youth, as he was, perhaps, a couple of decades ago. Yes, they were very old family photographs, but in satisfactory condition.

Sitting on the sofa at the table in the middle of the living room, John picked up a small hardcover book from the lower bunk. It was Shakespeare's "Hamlet". “Wow, they read the classics…” the boy thought. Once he himself read this tragedy over and over again, savoring every action, every act: Shakespeare was probably one of John's favorite authors. There was also a short story by Richard Bach about a seagull named Jonathan Livingston. The boy, alas, was not yet familiar with this book, and therefore decided to read it right now, because in appearance the book looked quite small.

John was fond of reading. Once upon a time in his childhood, while the boys and girls from the boarding house played under the sun on hot summer days, the hermit boy sat in an empty library, surrounded by books, and read. And not even because peers did not take alone into their game, but simply John was more comfortable that way than in the circle of noisy children. In a sense, it was such a way to hide from human eyes, and very effective, by the way. And now reading helped the boy feel a little better within the walls of an unfamiliar house.

Mr. Grantchester must have gone somewhere, but he left no note. In any case, there were no notes to be seen. John got up from the couch, book still in his hand, and went to the next room, which, as expected, was the kitchen. There was a bowl of fruit on the table, and in the refrigerator, John, to his surprise, found such products that he could not even identify by appearance. The boy was even confused, looking at the abundance of outlandish dishes, so he could not choose anything and slammed the refrigerator door, returning to the table and taking a red apple from the bowl. There is nothing better than eating something that looks and tastes familiar to you. John did not feel acute hunger, although he woke up later than usual: the wall clock hanging over the entrance to the kitchen showed fifteen minutes to nine.

The book about the seagull, indeed, turned out to be quite small, and John read it quickly enough. However, this fascinating process was interrupted by a loud cry coming from the street: the window in the kitchen was open, and a clearly distinguishable child's cry was heard not far away. The boy immediately put the book aside, went to the window and looked out into the street. Unfortunately, it was not possible to see anything in the courtyard area and the street along which the same type of one-story houses were located. Meanwhile, the growing scream excited John in earnest. He, as if forgetting about the existence of a door in the house, deftly climbed onto the windowsill and climbed out through the window, landing on the withered grass of the lawn. Having also deftly crossed the lawn, John, as if driven by a strange alluring feeling, clearly understood where this crying was coming from, and quickly crossed the street, passing along it and turning into an alley. However, what John saw in this alley terrified him, and the boy quickly hid around the corner, carefully sticking his back to the wall and continuing to listen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how three teenagers surround the fourth, weaker and younger, and clearly mock the boy. How many times John himself was in the position of this poor child, who was offended by his peers? How many times could not fight back, swallowing all the humiliation and insults? Nevertheless, what these bullies were doing, John didn’t even see during the squabbles that regularly happen at the orphanage. Such savagery for a boy hiding behind a wall was certainly a curiosity.

"Eat it, you bastard! Eat! Or I'll shove it down your throat myself!" aggressively minted one of the teenagers, forcing the child lying on the ground to eat something that he did not quite want to eat.

"I told you we should hit him a little more, then he’ll behave as we said!" Another bully noticed and, judging by the sound following further, he kicked the child in the stomach. The boy on the ground coughed and grunted. His crying subsided for a few seconds; the impact must have taken his breath away.

"Look! He's really going to eat it! Fuck! So freaky!" mockingly laughed one of the offenders.

"Come on, come on!" ordered the second under the hooting of his sang along. "Fuck! Look! He’s going to eat!"

"Of course it will! He will devour everything, and then he will thank us! Is that right, little son of bitch? I can not hear! Speak!"

John really wanted to help the child. The way how he helped Isaac yesterday. Mr. Grantchester said that John himself caused the whirlwind that knocked Alex off his feet. Is it possible to repeat this trick now? Here it is a case to check whether John really has some extraordinary abilities. The boy tried to concentrate, although it was even harder to do so than yesterday morning. Is he doing everything right? After all, yesterday in the orphanage, that whirlwind came by itself, John himself, in fact, did not create anything. What needs to be done now? John tried to focus all his excitement, fear and indignation on thoughts of the injustice happening in the alley, hoping with all his heart that he could help the defenseless boy.

"You're the same as your brother faggot! Small bastard! Both of you should eat..."

The hooligan's phrase suddenly broke off. Like a cry of the boy on the ground. John exhaled, hoping that just now a whirlwind had appeared, silencing these scoundrels. But neither a whirlwind, nor a tornado, nor other air activities happened. Instead, the exclamations of hooligans were heard, in which one could hear a sudden desperate bewilderment and fear: there was not a trace of mocking self-confidence. John did not understand anything and just looked around the corner, still hoping to see a hurricane, blowing away three hooligans from a narrow alley. However, the offenders were still there. They were no longer on their feet, but on the ground, they took something like small stones from its surface and put it in their mouths.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" choking on a strange substance, one of the hooligans tried to shout. The rest could not answer anything, since their mouth was full, and their hands, literally refusing to obey the body, repeatedly picked up something from the ground, reporting into the unclosing mouth.

The child, who until recently lay at the feet of hooligans and cried, now crawled back a little, to the metal grid, and looked at his offenders with strange interest, also not understanding anything. There was no fear in this boy at that moment, only a terrible curiosity. He was unable to say anything, just like the hooligans were not able to get their feet out of the damned alley, what they apparently now wanted more than anything else. John was sure that it was he who taught these tomboys a lesson: again, something inexplicable happened at his will, but, exhaling, he tried to suppress his anger at the bullies, mentally forgiving them for bullying an innocent child. In a word, it was an attempt to calm down and throw all thoughts out of his head. Then, looking around the corner again, John saw the obnoxious boys, swearing in dirty words that were hard to hear even from Alex in the orphanage, ran away from the alley, finally leaving the poor child alone. The scene was over.

At the same moment, John came around the corner and went to the child pressed against the bars of the net. The boy was no more than ten years old in appearance. He was thin and pale. Despite the fact that this child was well dressed, he was untidy: thin matted hair resembled a bird's nest, his face and hands were dirty (well, of course, how you can be clean here, lying on the ground). The face was covered with redness from tears: apparently, the villains tormented this poor fellow for a long time. John also noticed that on the ground not far from the child there was still something that the bullies wanted to force the boy to eat and what they themselves ended up having to dine with: it was half-dried dog excrement. John frowned, went round to the child, sat down next to him. The kid was not at all afraid of the stranger and was not even surprised when he looked at John's unusual face, covered with triangular growths.

"Don't worry, they won't come back. Are you okay?"

The question was stupid, and John himself understood this very well, so he did not wait for an answer, continuing.

"What's your name, boy?"

“I…” the child whispered in a very thin, childish voice. "I'm... I'm Nick. My name is Nick."

"Well, nice to meet you, Nick. And I'm John," the guy smiled in response. "Nick, where do you live? Let me take you home, just show me the way, cause I don’t know your cit..."

"Did you do that?" the child asked, as if not hearing what the savior had just told him.

John understood the question, but did not know how to answer correctly and only lowered his eyes.

"You drove those assholes away, right?" the child spoke again, as if reading John's thoughts, who had already realized that these questions were rather rhetorical and did not need an answer. Of course, it was an absolute necessity to help in this situation, but is it worth telling everyone right and left about your newly minted abilities, giving them publicity? John thought for a moment before answering the child's question. Of course, he did not regret what he had done at all, but the answer should have been very careful.

"This should remain our secret, okay?" John finally said with a nod. “I don’t know how it happened, but these boys got what they deserved, didn’t they? Nothing more. And you need to go home if the streets of your city are so dangerous..."

"Those jerks aren't dangerous," Nick objected. He wiped the remnants of tears from his reddened cheeks and surprisingly soon came to his senses. “They are just stupid. Because of my brother, they attack me too. They are not looking for the truth, but only the opportunity to assert themselves. So what happened here is for them in the order of things."

John was at least surprised. And not only by the fact that Nick perceived such a disgusting and cruel attack as something ordinary, but also by the fact that this child was not at all embarrassed by the sight of a strange face of a stranger and looked at John as an ordinary young man who did not stand out from the crowd. Anyone else, for sure, would have bombarded John with questions long ago, pointing a finger at him and being surprised at his tactlessness.

"Can you make people do what you want?" Nick asked. "Shut up! That's cool, dude. I wish I could do that too. Then everyone who offends my brother and me would be fucked up. How did you learn it?"

John watched the child bubbling with enthusiasm and interest. This was phenomenal, since the boy had never seen such admiration towards himself. Nick looked at him as if he was a real hero or a rock star, and there was a strange duality in this.

"I don't know what I can and can't do," John admitted honestly, looking down in embarrassment. “And to be honest, this is only the second time I've done this. Today and yesterday. However, it's better if this stays between us, okay? Let me take you home. Where do you live?"

"Home?" Nick frowned, as if he was talking about something extremely undesirable. “The parents might be there now. I would not like to cross paths with them again. Shouldn’t it be better in half an hour? Then they will definitely dump on their work..."

And this also surprised John: many children from the orphanage were ready to give their right hand to be cut off just to have parents and their own home, so it was extremely unusual to hear about such a dismissive attitude towards blood relatives. John was afraid to ask why such a young boy does not feel much zeal to return to his parents' house, but Nick seemed to read the thoughts of his savior again and answered.

"My brother and I, to put it mildly, are at odds with mom and dad. Although the parents themselves are not against this alignment. They have already given up on Max for a long time, he is already an adult, and it seems that they don’t give a damn about me either. Sometimes a mother tries to look like a worried hen, but, frankly, these attempts cannot even be called pathetic. That's why I run away from home, so as not to communicate with them. Are your parents the same? Or better?"

"I do not have parents. And never did," John said simply. "I grew up in an orphanage. Arrived at Riddlehill last night. Mr. Gregory Grantchester brought me here. Maybe you've heard of this? He has a house nearby. He rented it."

"Why did you come?" Nick asked another question.

"I don't know," John shrugged. The question was good. “They didn’t explain anything to me. Just taken from the shelter and brought here. So far, all I understand is that I have a chance to start a new beginning, make friends..."

"So, I will be your friend," the child said very confidently, smiling and holding out his hand to the interlocutor.

"Are you serious?" John asked excitedly. For the first time in his life, he heard such a phrase, especially from a person that he had known only a couple of minutes. John held out his hand to Nick in return, and the newfound friends shook their hands.

"Sure I am. You're a good man, John," nodded Nick, rising from the ground and brushing off dirt and dust from his clothes. John also got to his feet, mesmerized by the rapid development of the situation."

“Let me take you home after all,” John suggested for the third time.

"Well," agreed Nick, showing the direction with his hand. “I will introduce you to my brother. I think he will be at home in the morning. And if the parents aren't there, I will invite you to visit. Otherwise, we'll take a walk around the city. We have an awesome park!"

"Then let's go faster. How far is it to your house?" said John, walking behind Nick, who slowly walked to the exit of the alley, to where John had come to the children's cry.

The boys went out into the street, where the houses stood in a row on both sides. This street turned out to be very long, which John did not notice at first. At the same time, it was completely deserted here, and not even because there were few people who wanted to take a walk early in the morning and all those who woke up were now at work or at school, but because most of the houses here were in a terrible state: run-down and sometimes dilapidated buildings seemed to everyone their appearance declared that a human foot had not set foot in them for a very long time. John was surprised by this, asking the appropriate question to Nick.

“Everyone is already used to it and does not pay attention to it,” the child replied. “Anyone who has the opportunity tries to get out of Riddlehill, even if he loves this town. I will definitely leave when I am of age. True, the wait is still very long. But I made the decision to leave a long time ago. Mostly because of crappy parents."

"Apart from your relationship with your parents, do you generally love your town?" John asked: he didn’t think it was strange to want to leave his hometown, but rather he was surprised that such thoughts appeared in the head of a child who, apparently, had not yet lived his first ten years.

"Look with your own eyes. Landscapes are worth thousands of words." Nick raised his hand and pointed to the surroundings. "This town is old and has not been developed for a long time. One person won't solve anything. It’s better to go somewhere where there’s some potential for development. You have to study in order to get an education. Today is the first day of school. And I missed it. These assholes attacked me, took away books and notebooks. My parents will kill me when they find out about this. But the mother will have a reason to groan and moan as she likes. Such predictability is even a little funny."

"Come on," either jokingly or seriously, John objected. “Of course, I never had parents, but I doubt that they are capable of killing their child."

"Oh, you're still not familiar with my folks, - Nick laughed, and his phrase, oddly enough, sounded without a hint of sarcasm. “And, frankly, it’s better for you not to know them. They are just desperate for any kind of quarrel. Goddamn hysterics!"

John just agreed and didn't argue. Oddly enough, Nick never asked a question about triangular growths all the way, although John himself expected such questions every second. It became more and more obvious that the child simply did not care about the strangeness of the fellow traveler's face.

It turned out that Nick lives in a very large house, even larger than the one Mr. Grantchester rented. Moreover, this house was not far away: the road took no more than fifteen minutes. John was sure that now Nick would just enter the house and this meeting would end, but the boy instead went straight to the left wing of the house, picked up several very small stones from the ground and began to throw them at the second floor window. Questions would be superfluous now, so John just stepped aside to the fence and watched the whole thing happen.

Nick, with amazing accuracy, continued to shoot pebbles at the glass, which remained intact and did not even crack. This went on for about a minute, after which the window frame moved away and an adult guy appeared. Sleepy, with disheveled blond hair, he rubbed his eyes, looking down at the lawn.

"Hey, parents aren't home," he yawned loudly. "So it was not necessary to wake me up. Why are you so dirty? And who is with you?"

"This is my new friend!" even somehow enthusiastically stated Nick, winking at John, who was very embarrassed. "We became friends this morning."

Nick's brother gave him a startled look and said:

"Wow, you make friends quickly. That’s some speed you got there, young man! Come into the house. Let's drink coffee. This is the only dose that is available to me now..."

John did not understand the last phrase at all, so he ignored it. John was more intrigued by the invitation to coffee: he had never drunk this drink either, but he had heard that it was an excellent treat. Nick, approaching John, took his hand, which was a very sweet, albeit unexpectedly awkward gesture, and led the guest into the house.

It was a very large house where John saw things he didn't even know existed. What about the big coffee machine that seemed like some kind of infernal mechanism at first sight. In general, John felt like a provincial child in the emperor's palace. But in order not to look completely savage and ignorant, he had to hide his surprise and the tourist syndrome.

There was a large comfortable table in the kitchen, at which Nick invited the guest to sit down, pushing back two chairs. This little boy was very courteous, which amazed John over again, but Max, Nick's older brother, was less courteous. He remained serious and sleepy, quietly preparing coffee, and John watched it with interest.

Nick immediately, without waiting a second, began to tell his brother why he missed the first day of school and was left without a few textbooks and a backpack, and also how heroically John saved him from bullies. John whispered back to Nick something along the lines of "But that was our secret..."
 
Meanwhile, this story has already ceased to be a secret for one hundred percent, since Nick pattered its details literally in one breath. Max, however, obviously missed every second word of his younger brother, and obviously not because he was indifferent to this story, but because he simply really wanted to sleep. The guy was just nodding and humming back.

Max was a tall, thin, broad-shouldered guy with unruly blond hair, long uncut and sticking out in all directions, with a narrow and strong-boned face and not quite a friendly look, but this silent guy, yawning every five seconds, did not inspire rejection, but rather curiosity. Finally, when the coffee was ready, Max put three white cups of hot drink on the table and flopped awkwardly into a chair himself, taking the first sip of the scalding drink.

"All this is very interesting," Max muttered, looking intently at John with some kind of X-ray look. “Those high-school assholes again? They gave up studying and don't let the others people learn, they don’t give shit, motherfuckers. Don't worry, it's always like this with him. He runs away from home, and then he is surprised by his own adventures."

“I learned from the best,” Nick remarked, laughing, and then turned to John, clearly noticing his timidity. "Drink your coffee while it's hot. There’s a lot of coffee in our house."

"I'm Max, this troublemaker's brother," Max said, suddenly smiling at the guest.

"And I'm John," the boy replied, and started drinking coffee. In fact, it was almost impossible to drink boiling water, and had to sip it through the lips, and John just wanted to hide his eyes in the mug from Max, whose gaze was so direct that it seemed to bore through the guest. Not to say that John really liked the drink: the taste was specific, but with every sip, John found something attractive in coffee and not at all related to taste.

"Well, John," nodded Max, showing a raised thumbs up. "Thanks for getting Nick out of yet another mess. I would offer you to become his personal bodyguard, but I have nothing to pay."

“Yes, I can’t always protect myself, actually” John admitted honestly. "So it was just luck. And I don't want to be a bodyguard. But I would not refuse to make friends."

The thought again flashed through John's mind that neither of these two brothers had yet asked the question about the growths on the guest's face. It was so unusual that the discomfort of being in new places and a strange euphoria created an incredible double combination. Max continued to cast a little offhand and exploratory glances at the guest, but very friendly and not repulsive with their curiosity.

"Well, what did you, John, forget in our miserable outback?" Max asked. "Guests at Riddlehill are an extraordinary event."

"I think the town is beautiful. Albeit a bit deserted,” John pointed out. "Yes, and I did not choose it: I was brought here yesterday."

"Relatives?" Max's interest did not fade away, but, on the contrary, grew.
"No," John replied embarrassedly, having finished his coffee: the portion seemed to him very small. "I have no relatives. I'm... like... an orphan."

"Wow, wow," suddenly said Max, exchanging glances with Nick. His brother was a little distracted, looking out the window. Behind the glass on the street near the fence, several teenagers gathered and talked loudly about something, although only fragments of phrases were heard, the meaning of which was neither possible nor desirable to make out.

"It's nothing," John muttered, "I've been an orphan all my life and I'm already used to it. I was brought here by a man I don't even really know, to be honest. But the choice between illusory possibilities and empty uncertainty is obvious. Anything is better than living in a place where everyone despises you."

Max laughed out loud.

"Been there, felt that! Nice story, John. And what do you plan to do in Riddlehill? How old are you?"

“I think sixteen,” the guy said timidly in response, pushing the empty mug away from him. Will the owners of this amazing house understand that the guest wants more?

"Do you think?" Nick was surprised, distracted from the window. "You don't know how old you are?"

"That's right," John smiled and nodded. "They don’t celebrate birthdays in the orphanage, so it’s difficult to count, and there’s no point in it. But I don't think I'm more than sixteen years old. Based on the class I was in."

"Are they forced to study there too?" Nick asked loud. It seems that he had clearly too romantic ideas about orphanages.

"Everyone should learn," Max said, raising his index finger up, supposedly depicting a wise man.

"You should talk," added Nick, chuckling.

Nick was clearly shocked at the thought that a person could live so many years without even knowing what day he was born. But Max just grunted and began to put the empty cups in the sink.

The sound of breaking glass was heard so unexpectedly that no one even immediately realized what had happened. A half-liter glass bottle landed on the kitchen table, puffing out thick smoke that rapidly filled the kitchen. Max ran up to Nick, who had fallen from a chair in surprise, grabbed him in his arms and ran out of the kitchen. John, covering his nose with his hand, hurriedly followed the guys. There was also the sound of breaking glass in the living room. Someone attacked the house with homemade smoking glass containers. Now fragments of phrases from the street have become more distinguishable.

"Get it, you fucking faggot!" a shout was heard. Again, more shells flew in, followed by curses and mocking laughter.

John followed Max, who, without letting go of his brother, ran out of the house and, placing the child at the gazebo, ordered to stay where he was and not to go anywhere. He just gave John a worried look then.

"I'll deal with them. I'll be back soon! Care of him, please."

Three large teenagers were still hanging around the perimeter fence with smoke coming out of house's windows. Max quickly stepped out of the gate, lashing out at the three by himself. Apparently, the offenders were well known to him, since they addressed Max with undisguised familiarity. Aggressive strong guys did not hesitate to throw, to put it mildly, rude words. Scolding poured from their mouths like sewage from a broken sewer pipe.

John didn't understand why these teenaged bulls attacked peaceful people, why they called Max "fag" and "bastard" in every second word. He watched in horror as Max got a rough slaps in an unequal fight, as the guy’s lips bled out, and his face was bruised and bruised with incredible speed. Nick, obviously at a loss, but not in fright, wanted to rush to help his brother, but John immediately stopped him.

"He needs help!" the child exclaimed. "Can you help him? Make them leave! Just like you did in the alley!"

"I do not know how to do that! I'll try…" John whispered.

"Please, faster ..." Nick pleaded, still trying to escape: John held him tightly by the shoulder.

John tried to focus on the bullies. He closed his eyes, mentally directed all his energy to anger, the desire to punish the fighters. Nothing came out. Nick slipped out of the fingers of John, who lost his vigilance for a moment, and, grabbing a shovel from the ground, which apparently one of the parents had left lying on the lawn, ran to the gate. Max at that moment already knocked one of the offenders to the ground, breaking his face with his fists, the other two tried to kick him from the side. Nick stabbed one of them in the back with a shovel, which caused him to scream and bounce aside.

"Get out of here, Nick!" Max shouted. "Right now!"

The guy got off from the thug, who, in a semi-conscious state, remained lying on the road. The hooligan who received a blow on the back grabbed Nick, holding his hands behind his back and showing with all his appearance that he was ready to inflict fatal damage on the child at any second.

"Well, you piece of shit?" he blurted out with insane aggression. "Are you afraid for your brother? Probably turned him into a fagot already, right? I'll tear off his head, then you’re gonna die. And when it happens, there will be no faggots in this town!"

“Hey, bro, don’t touch the child,” his friend suddenly said with apprehension. "We, it seems, only wanted to teach a fag a lesson..."

"Shut up, Dustin!" yelled the thug to his accomplice. Apparently, this scoundrel that was holding Nick now was the leader of the gang, because from his cry this Dustin already staggered back, looking down.

"Let! My! Brother. GO!" Max said loudly and demandingly, clenching his fists. "If you want to fight, fight me! Don't involve the child!"

"You're in no position to give orders, you piece of shit with a hole..."

And then this thug squealed furiously. Nick grabbed his teeth into the bully's hand and bit off a piece of his skin, spitting out a lump of bleeding flesh on the asphalt. This helped the child to slip out of captivity.

"Oh, you little bastard!" the bully yelled, writhing in pain and clutching the wound with his palm, and kicked the child in the chest, causing Nick to fly off to the side, hitting the fence.

Obviously, the second hooligan did not expect that a minor child would come into scuffle, and, again stepping back, cowardly took his feet off the street. However, the guy with the gnawed hand became completely furious, screamed like a savage, and attacked Max, spitting and screaming in anger.

"I'll fuck you with this shovel, you dirty fagot, so hard so that even your ass is gonna shit, faggot!"

Max took the blow to the solar plexus, which caused him to bend over and collapse to the ground, temporarily unable to fight back. But there were no new blows. Everything suddenly calmed down, and even the sobs of the wounded fighter died out. Max raised his head, looking at the unconscious bully and his friend, who suddenly froze in place, at Nick, huddled in horror against the fence of the house. Everything froze, as if someone had paused what was happening. The thug standing on his feet suddenly leaned over, picking up from the ground the same shovel with which he had received a blow to the back a few minutes ago from Nick. It was obvious from the bully's face that he did not understand what was happening, and panic began to appear in his eyes with subsequent actions.

With trembling fingers of his free hand, the thug began to unbutton his pants and pulled them down along with white underwear, exposing his legs and genitals.

"What's happening?" he squealed. “What the fucking hell is going on?!”

Max, like his brother, did not know the answer to the question. But no one was in a hurry to save the hated instigator of the mess. At least a dozen people poured out of neighboring houses, trying to figure out what was going on.

Apparently, one of them had already called the police, as the siren of a police car began to be heard not far away. The bully, in horror realizing what his body was starting to do, literally refusing to listen to its owner, began to frantically scream something inarticulate, drooling and tears, leaned to the ground, bringing the shovel handle to his anus, and began penetration. The scream of the thug did not stop, he roared and cursed everything and everyone. The police officers who arrived stood up shocked, unable to figure out what to do and why the teenager staged such a terrible public self-torture. Then they took him away and literally pushed him into the back seat of the car, barely taking away and throwing the ill-fated shovel aside.

An utter noise arose: the neighbors oohed and ahhed, proclaimed their displeasure. The police had to use a bullhorn to ask people to go home. Someone, apparently, called not only the police, but also the parents of Nick and Max. This became clear only a couple of minutes after the thug was removed from the street into the car.

Mrs. and Mr. Angermeier looked the same age and generally resembled each other so much that this couple could easily be mistaken for brother and sister. Tall, skinny, dressed in a businesslike strict manner, both, apparently, were unceremoniously pulled out of the workplace, as evidenced by their appearance: discontent, concern and subsequently anger when the parents saw their sons and by default decided that it was them The kids made this whole mess.

Mr. Angermeier politely explained himself to the police officer, and Mrs. Angermeier, looking at her sons, strictly and even rudely ordered them to go into the house. Seeing John standing at the corner, she glanced at Max, asking:

"Who the hell is this? What the fuck is he doing here? Did you bring him?"

"This is my guest!" Nick stated. "I brought him!"

"Whatever!" the woman retorted irritably, then called out to John as if she thought he was deaf. "Hey, you freak! Get out of our yard!"

John, frightened that he would do something else, ran across the yard and darted through the gate behind the fence. The woman led her sons into the house, watching the fleeing John with an extremely haughty look, and after half a minute her husband followed her, smiling, waving his hand to the police, who were already getting into the car, intending to leave the street. Of course, when the police disappeared, there was no trace of that smile.

"Nicholas! Quickly to your room!" boomed Mr. Angermeier, raising his hand and gesturing sharply towards the bedrooms.

"What are you going to do?" Nick exclaimed, looking anxiously at his brother: Mr. Angermeier pushed Max in the neck, thus sending the eldest son to the kitchen, where there was still smoke. Mrs. Angermeier had already found several smoking bottles and disposed of them by throwing them out the broken glass window. She swore several times, realizing in horror what her misguided sons had turned the living room and kitchen into.

"Go to your room, immediately!" the man barked at Nick and, going into the kitchen to fetch his wife and eldest son, slammed the door loudly.

Max remained silent, furrowing his brows. The father, without saying anything, approached him and hit his son in the face with all his might. The guy was thrown back and landed near the table, closing the wounds that had begun to bleed again. This blow, of course, was no more serious than those that Max received in a fight on the street. And it seems that such an act of the father for Max was not a surprise.

"What did you do, you fuckface?" shouted Mr. Angermeier with wild disdain. “And so the whole street whispers behind our backs since you became a drugged faggot with your fucking friends! Do you want to finish off both our house and us? Answer, motherfucker!"

"Jeffrey! For God's sake! Neighbors will hear you!" hissed Mrs. Angermeier, pointing to the broken window.

"Let them listen!" the man continued to be angry, looking at his eldest son as if he were something extremely vile. “Let them see that we don’t approve of this moron’s way of life! Maybe they’ll realize that you and I have nothing to do with that ungrateful faggot!"

"I was just protecting my brother!" Max said these words through his teeth, staring fearlessly into his father’s eyes.

"Why are you here at all?" hissed Mrs. Angermeier, throwing a withering glance at Max. We told you not to come! If you want to hang out in the company of stoned junkies - for God's sake, do it! You chose to be gay - please! But not in this house and not under our roof!"

"I didn't choose to be gay!" Max replied. "Being gay is shit! Everyone hates and condemns me! And do you, mother, and you, father, really think that if I had the choice to become straight, I would not use it?! Do you really think, dear parents that I myself like all this crap that’s going on with our family? You don’t like who I am - that’s the reason your hatred ruined our family! Your hatred ruined the family, but certainly not that I’m gay!"

Mr. and Mrs. Angermeier seemed to have nothing to say, hovering in confusion. Max added:

"You gave birth to me like this! You made me who I am today. Here I am!" Max exclaimed, opening his arms, as if opening up to everything at once. "Here is the result of your parenting! I do not like?! You already lost me! And you will also lose Nick if you'll go on this way!"

"Get the hell out!" roared Mr. Angermeier, pointing to the door. "Otherwise I'll kill you, freak! I swear to God!"

"And don't you dare come back!" Mrs. Angermeier joined her husband with a trembling voice. "Don't ruin our lives. You ruin everything you touch."

Max put his lips together and said nothing. He rose to his feet, wiped the half-dried blood from his lips with his sleeve, and walked, limping a little, to the door. Opening the door and lingering at the threshold, the guy turned around, keeping his eyes on his parents, who continued to look at their eldest son with the same hatred, and decided not to say anything more. Turning to the exit, Max walked into the living room. A teardrop ran down his wounded cheek.

Nick was standing in the living room: he did not obey to his parents and still did not go to his room. Looking at his brother in horror, the boy rushed to him and hugged him tightly.

"I don't want you to leave! No!" the child screamed.

"I told you! In the room! Quick!" Mr. Angermeier shouted, flying up to his sons and literally tearing Nick away from his brother. In a careless gesture, perhaps accidental, perhaps intentional, the man pulled the child by the shirt aside, causing him to fly against the wall and to be hit.

Max, who kept his temper in conversation with his parents, suddenly swung and with all the force he was capable of at that moment, struck his father in the face, from which the man collapsed, flying to the sofa. Then Max glanced at Nick and spoke quietly, calmly.

"I have to go, bro. But this is not forever. Someday you will understand everything and draw the right conclusions. In the meantime, be smart and study well. I love you Nikki."

Then the guy looked at his father, who grabbed his broken nose with his hand, and at his mother, who rushed to the landline and muttered something about the fact that she was about to call the police, and cut the end of the line hard.
"If a hair falls off Nick's head, I'll come back and kill you, you stinky old goat!"

And Max left his parents' house. Of course, it wasn’t the first quarrel, and Max had already heard all these accusations of his parents a million times, but for some reason, it was today that the guy’s hands were shaking, and tears appeared on his bruised cheeks, although the guy tried his best to restrain himself and not burst into tears.

Behind the gate, at a large pole, on which a street lamp was fixed, John was sitting right on the pavement. But Max did not stop next to him, only gave him a strange look, full of some kind of heavy regret. John jumped up and rushed after the hastily walking guy. Max saw this, as he noticed that John could barely keep up with him, moving from step to run.

"What do you need?" Max threw, not wanting to slow down.

"What happened?" John asked, even though he knew he was meddling. "Where is Nick?"

"My parents are fucking assholes! That's what happened!" Max growled and hit the advertising stand with all his might, under the glass of which there was a poster depicting a glossy image of a happy family, where everyone smiled and beamed with happiness; probably it was an advertisement for some kind of toothpaste, otherwise why would these people from the picture show their snow-white teeth like that.

The advertising stand was smashed, and Max's fist received new wounds. However, after this blow, thank you very much, the guy calmed down a bit, took a couple of steps to the nearest bench, that was placed by a small fountain in the end of the street, and collapsed onto the seat. John sat next to him. For several minutes no one said a word. Max was so heavily smeared with blood, as if he had fallen under a lawn mower, his lips were covered with a burgundy crust of gore, but the guy did not pay attention to this at all, hovering in his deep thoughts. John thought, too, that the world outside the orphanage could be even more cruel and horrible than it is within.

"Did you do that?" Max exhaled, breaking the silence. "Made Mark Peterson stick a shovel up his ass?"

John nodded. He suddenly realized that he himself had no idea about the limits of his powers. Maybe now he is helping someone, but what if these abilities take over John and begin to control the inexperienced boy themselves? What if these forces can bring not only justice, but also chaos?

"Thank you," Max whispered, turning to the interlocutor whose lips, smeared with blood, stretched into a pleasant smile. “Mark Peterson has been bullying me for years, ever since high school, even though I was three years older than that asshole. I think he got a good lesson today. How do you do this? Are you from Hogwarts or something like that?"

"I don't know," John answered honestly. “I don't know much about myself at all. It started yesterday. But when I see injustice, I just focus. And it just works out. What is Hogwarts by the way?"

“Fuck,” Max exclaimed with obvious delight. "Yes, you're just a real avenger. You can do all sorts of extraordinary things, you don’t know what Hogwarts is. What planet are you from, guy? And hiring you as a bodyguard was just a brilliant idea. There’s a couple of other fuckers who could use a shovel up their ass."

"What happened today in your family?" John asked not only because he wanted to change the subject, but also because he really cared about it.

"Actually, it happened long long ago," Max shrugged his shoulders, looking away. "Parents, to begin with, hate each other: the mother cannot stand the father for his betrayals and lies, the father constantly accuses the mother of being stupid and superficial. They got married under the compulsion of their parents and now live without love, they can hardly stand each other. I am hated for being gay and being in bad company. And they, in fact, just don’t care about Nick, even though they actively pretend to care about him. And, frankly, it’s better not to have a family at all than this shit..."

John winced. He always thought that being an orphan was the worst thing that could happen to a child. Is everything in this world so relative and not delineated by clear boundaries?

"But you're a good person, aren't you?" said the boy, looking at the newly frowning Max. "How you rushed to save Nick, so desperately and fearlessly. A bad person wouldn't do that, I think."

“Well, you don’t know me at all yet,” Max chuckled. "What if I'm a cannibal, a rapist and a murderer?"

"Is that so?" John spoke up immediately. Max looked John in the eyes.

"No," he smiled. "That's not true. Although many equate all these words with gays. As if there are no fucking ones among straight people."

John smiled too. For a few more seconds, they stared into each other's eyes. John has never met gay people. He didn't even fully understand the meaning of the word. But what are words? Just sound waves. Actions are more important. Before the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Angermeier, everything seemed so warm and welcoming, and Max and Nick proved to be good-natured and courageous people. Then before John's eyes again appeared the image of the woman indignant in her rage, who called him a freak fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps it's a good thing that the Angermeier children are running away from home. Therefore, they do not look like, thank heavens, their, frankly, not quite adequate parents.

"You need to go to the hospital. After all, you got beat up pretty bad," John stated the fact, looking anxiously at the abrasions and bruises on Max's body. "You're covered in blood. Suddenly something serious? Let me take you. And don't argue, I'll go with you. What if hooligans appear again, then I'll come up with something more interesting than a shovel."

Max laughed. An elderly man walking by looked surprised and disapprovingly at the guys sitting on the bench: one was smeared with blood, the second was a teenager with an ugly face. The picture, of course, could not fail to attract the attention of passers-by.

“You will be my friend,” Max said flatly. “After all, Nick wouldn’t call a bad person his friend."

"Okay," John nodded. “Now get up and show me where the hospital is in your city. Sure, if I had been hit like that, I wouldn't even be able to walk on my own. I would wake up in the hospital wing with Sister Maggie..."

"Who is Maggie's sister?" Max was surprised. He remembered that John was an orphan, so it was strange to hear such a word as "sister" in his speeches. Nevertheless, John explained everything to him.

Although it was not so far to the hospital, about half an hour on foot, the time of the walk passed unnoticed. John and Max chatted the whole way, and there were no awkward pauses. John told Max about life in the orphanage, about the unusual incident yesterday, and about Mr. Gregory Grantchester and meeting him in the hospital wing. Max, to be honest, did not even know that there was an orphanage in the suburbs. He asked many questions, mostly about John's background, his early childhood and how he got into the orphanage.

"I don't remember anything," John answered. “I only know what Mr. Grantchester told me yesterday. Most likely, my parents died right after I was born. I often thought that family is not exactly blood, but heartfelt attachment. If one of my parents showed up now, I would hardly be able to feel this moment. They would be completely strangers."

"Well, this Gregory Grantchester, who took you from the shelter, is also essentially a stranger. But you trusted him,” Max noted.

"I had to get out of the orphanage. Where would I go without him? Mr. Grantchester just pulled me out of that gloomy swamp. In all my life I have never seen anything but a few buildings of the orphanage. Of course, it was a risk. But after the age of majority, I would still be driven away. So it was only a matter of time."

John saw Max holding his hand to his side, apparently in pain.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"It seems that that motherfucker broke my rib. It's okay, and I’ve been in this kind of trouble before many times. I will live!" Max replied. “Listen, it means that these abilities of yours did not manifest themselves until yesterday? But where did they come from? Maybe some radioactive tick bit you? Or struck by lightning?"

"No, no one hit me or bit me. I myself have not understood anything yet. I think Mr. Grantchester knows the answer. I wanted to talk to him about it, but on the road he was not very talkative, and in the morning I woke up and he was not at all in the house. I heard your brother's screams and rushed to his rescue. And so began today's adventure," said John.

"I'm glad it happened. Although, on the one hand, this day might seem like shit, but in general it certainly isn’t. It's even lucky that we're going to the hospital. My friend is there now. He got into a strange mess yesterday. Maybe you can see him. I also have a friend, Antonella. I will introduce you to her. She is a rough girl, but generally friendly."

"Are they just buddies? Or are they real friends? And in sorrow and in joy?" John asked.

"Real ones," specified Max. "Love them. And ready to give his life for them."

"More proof that you're a good person," John said. “You love them, and bad people are incapable of love. That's what Sister Maggie always told me."

"If it weren't for the bruises, I would have blushed," Max laughed. "By the way, it's here. Do you want to wait here for me? Or can we go inside together?"

"Let's go together," John said confidently, and the guys crossed the road, approaching the main entrance to Riddlehill Hospital.

John had never been in a real hospital and this was new to him. At the entrance, everything was so clean and tidy that he even wanted to take off his shoes, but Max, laughing, said that it was enough just to put on shoe covers, the container with which stood at the front door.

"I'll go to the reception, make an appointment with the doctor, and you wait here for now. With me, you will not be let through. Hey, can you hear me?" Max said when the guys were already in the reception area.

But John did not react to Max's question in any way, because he froze in horror, looking towards the long corridor, at the entrance to which stood a young guy who looked like him like two peas in a pod. It wasn't some kind of coincidence. The young man John's eyes were fixed on was his exact replica, except for the triangular growths. A monstrous attack of nausea rolled up a huge lump in the boy's throat. Understanding nothing, John, forgetting everything, rushed to escape from the hospital. Does it happen really? Looking through the mirror all his adult life, John dreamed of seeing his face normal, unbroken by these triangles, and this dream finally came true.

The boy ran without stopping, crossing the carriageway, ignoring the traffic lights, not knowing where he was going, and in general, even forgetting the way back to the street where Mr. Grantchester’s house was located. Yes. Mr. Grantchester. He could explain all this! John realized that he needed to find this man and demand answers, even if he had to force them out of him.

After a few minutes, John realized that he was lost. The boy, like a frightened kitten, shied away from any person passing by, flinched at every sharp sound. Without realizing how it happened, John rushed to run through the intersection and crashed into a tall adult man at full speed. It was Charlie Atlantis, Aywa's father. He looked down at the confused and frightened child. To a strong, sturdy man such a collision was nothing, but John seemed like to have crashed into a brick wall, completely taken aback by what was happening.

"Careful, boy," the police officer said. His gaze could not pass by the unusual face of the child. Of course, Charlie did not experience admiration: the growths at first even frightened the man a little. “Are you lost? Where are you from?"

But John couldn't get the words out of himself. The boy's tongue suddenly turned to stone and was unable to move. Charlie had no choice but to take the strange teenager to the police station so that, God forbid, he would not get into some kind of trouble. John seemed to see nothing and did not notice what was happening, so he did not particularly resist. The shock had not yet let go of the boy, and that double with a face not disfigured by growths was spinning right in front of boy's eyes."

At the police station, Mr. Atlantis placed the child in a waiting room that did not look very comfortable, but John did not notice this either, as he ignored the mug of tea that Charlie's colleague, Carlos, carefully made for him. It was a small room, in the middle of which stood a square table and two chairs on either side of the table. Oddly enough, in such a cramped room, John no longer felt the anxiety that captured him on the street, but at the same time, a heavy load of thoughts fell on the boy, plunging his consciousness even deeper into the abyss. Charlie returned very soon and sat at the table across from John. Realizing the condition of this child, the police officer very delicately tried to start a dialogue, trying to attract the attention of the boy and bring him out of his state of shock. However, all attempts were fruitless, and Charlie quickly gave up. John did not react in any way and did not answer questions. The boy seemed to have completely shut himself off from everything around him. Charlie tried for a few more minutes to bring the child into dialogue and, realizing that nothing worked, left the waiting room, heading to his office, where Carlos was waiting for him, leafing through the current reports. Charlie walked around the office with a gloomy and thoughtful look and sat down in his chair.

“Well, September started, of course, perky,” Carlos remarked with irony, putting a stack of papers in a blue folder. These were the reports for today. “I wonder if anyone else calls Riddlehill a serene home of tranquility?”

Carlos was known as a good-natured, albeit a bit of emotionally stunted man, a fan of his work and an avid angler. He was a sturdy, not tall man with a beer belly, a thick mustache, and brown skin. Carlos and Charlie have been friends since childhood, studied together, and later built a career side by side in their native Riddlehill. Charlie also often went fishing with Carlos to the lake, although he did not have the same passion for this activity as his friend did. So in such difficult days as the current one, Charlie and Carlos supported each other both as colleagues and as friends.

“If it keeps going the same way, it will bring me to death,” Charlie sighed. He really wanted to sleep, as he worked for the second day without rest. “First the strange story with Uther Klein in the park, then at the Angermeier house... What happened there? I've only heard rumors that, to be honest, I don't quite believe."

“The Peterson’s son has stuck a shovel handle up his butt,” Carlos said, embarrassed, barely able to contain the irony. “That’s how you’ve been working in the police for fifteen years and you think that you’ve already seen everything. But boom - and such a surprise."

"Yeah," Charlie muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Young people have gone crazy. I don’t want to seem like an old curmudgeon, but you must admit, when we were young, we didn’t do such tricks, but were busy with work, studied, worked..."

“You look bad, buddy,” Carlos stated. “You should leave early today. I'll finish the reports by the end of the day, out of questions."

"Yeah, you're right, thanks," Charlie agreed. “Just need to deal with the child who got lost. Well, with this one, which has a strange face. He is silent. There was no way to talk. I'm sure he's not from here. Such a child in our small town would not get lost."

Charlie's statement was reasonable. In Riddlehill, many people knew each other: the town was small. Moreover, such an unusual boy would have been made a local landmark a long time ago.

“Peace only a dream-like yearning,” Carlos shook his head. “We haven’t even gone to lunch yet…”

The phone rang, and Charlie immediately picked up the phone, speaking in a precise tone.

"Riddlehill Police Station, Atlantis listening."

Something made Charlie very happy. The man suddenly smiled, and judging by the further telephone conversation, it was some very good friend who called. The conversation was short: during it, Charlie said only a couple of phrases and, after hanging up, he exhaled with relief and, looking at Carlos, that was full of curiosity, shared the news.

"Here you go. One problem less. My old friend came to town. Perhaps you remember him. This is Gregory Granchester. He brought the baby to Riddlehill today. And apparently we are talking about the child that I brought. Gregory will be here in ten minutes to pick him up."

"Hmm, Grantchester, you say?" Carlos asked, narrowing his eyes. “Isn’t this the same Grantchester that went to school with us for a couple of years? Such a pompous, haughty look?"

"You never loved him," Charlie nodded. “No wonder you remember Grantchester this way. I'll wait for him - and after that go home to sleep. I feel like a zombie."

“And you look like that: can't wait you’re gonna start eating brains,” added Carlos. "I'm going for coffee. Should you take it? Or have you had enough?"

“Just the word makes me sick,” Charlie said predictably. "Coffee today was already enough." The man rubbed his forehead, and then his eyes, in which red vessels obviously began to appear: fatigue was on his face.

Carlos got out and stormed out of the police station, probably heading for the nearest coffee shop, not only because they made coffee much better than it did in an inexpensive local coffee machine, but also, most likely, because he simply did not want to meet Gregory Grantchester . Left alone with himself, Charlie just sat in his comfortable chair for several minutes, closing his eyes, but controlling his condition and not letting himself fall asleep. After that, he took out a mobile phone from his pants pocket and called his daughter. Charlie was extremely surprised that Aywa was not at school, and then simply asked his daughter to be very careful and said that he would return home earlier than usual today. The girl, in turn, told her father that Uther came to his senses and feels just fine. This was very unexpected and good news, although the surviving guy was to be interrogated, an unpleasant formality. Aywa promised her father to return to classes, and after finishing school immediately go home.

No sooner had this conversation ended than there was a knock on the study door and Gregory Grantchester appeared on the threshold. The man looked as if he had jumped not into the police office, but into the last wagon of the outgoing train. Unlike yesterday's meeting with Stefan Jernigan at the orphanage, this visit was filled with neither nostalgia nor friendly hugs. Despite the fact that the men smiled at each other and exchanged a firm handshake, no further courtesies followed. Gregory looked extremely excited and was in a hurry to get down to business.

"Why did you bring this child to the city? And why did you come back here? You didn't show up at Riddlehill... how long? Already, probably, about twenty years," Charlie asked in surprise, as if ignoring the request of the guest to immediately take him to John.

"I can't tell you now, buddy," Gregory Grantchester grumbled, rubbing his hands impatiently. “I just want to take the baby. He ended up in the city and in this awful situation because of my indiscretion: I did not expect that he would wake up before I returned to the house ..."

"You suddenly return to the city, and even bring this unusual child with you. Without knowing you, I certainly would not have suspected anything. But you obviously have something in mind," Charlie stated suspiciously.

The fact is that Gregory Grantchester was a very rich man and his habitual habitats were usually megacities, but for some reason this man had shown interest in Riddlehill for many years and sponsored a shelter named after St. Paul, which was located on the edge of the city. What exactly could attract the attention of a millionaire from the big capital, a man who had many connections and power, to Riddlehill, in this bearish corner, could only be guessed at. The question Charlie had just asked was, by the way, not the first time, but Gregory Grantchester never explained anything, keeping everyone interested in intense ignorance.

"This kid used to live in Riddlehill, just grew up in an orphanage. I just moved it to the city. I assure you, Charlie, I'm documented to have the right to transport this minor. And as for his… hmm… “weirdness”, that’s how John was born. Can I pick it up now? Or I can't?"

This is all the explanation that Gregory bothered to provide, making it clear with his whole appearance that he did not have time for long conversations at all. Perhaps Charlie was too tired to continue trying to extract bits of information from an old acquaintance, so he nodded understandingly and smiled. After advising to monitor the child more carefully in the future, Charlie led Gregory through the corridor to the waiting room.

John met Mr. Gregory Grantchester at first with a blank stare, as if he didn't even recognize him. The boy's look remained the same sluggishly: the shock, probably, did not let him go. But that same shock disappeared in an instant already at the moment when Gregory approached the child very close, putting his hand on his shoulder. Sitting on a low chair, John looked up at the man who had come, and his eyes suddenly lit up with violent anger. Gregory decided that it was better to talk at home, so he said softly:

"Let's go, John. We need to get out of here. I'm sorry I left you alone. Today I will tell you the whole truth..."

Before the man had time to finish this phrase, an unknown force lifted him into the air and with force threw him to the side of a solid wall, literally gluing Gregory to its surface. The man jerked his legs in the air, but could not sink to the floor. His eyes never left John's filled with rage. Charlie, who was standing behind the glass in the corridor, tried to break into the room to help his friend, as he had expected, being frightened by what was happening, but the door was suddenly blocked and all attempts to open it were futile. The ceiling lamp sparkled and flickered. Charlie tried to break the glass of the room window with a chair, but the glass did not break and the blows did not cause any damage to the smooth surface. In the end, Charlie just started calling for help, watching in horror what was happening in the waiting room.

“If you keep me in this position, I won’t be able to tell you anything…” Mr. Grantchester declared loudly and calmly. "Put me down and I'll tell you everything. Promise."

Then the man immediately fell to the floor: the wall stopped drawing him to itself. Carefully, slowly, as if it were not a child on a chair sitting in front of him, but a dangerous animal, a sudden movement in front of which could cost his life, Gregory got to his feet and moved step by step towards the table, not taking his eyes off John.

"Tell the truth!" the boy said in a harsh commanding tone, apparently obsessed with otherworldly forces: such a tone of conversation was not at all typical for such a modest loner.

"Okay," Gregory breathed out. “But it's a very long story. Do you really want me to tell you this here? At the police office? Do you see what's going on behind the glass? See what a commotion you've made? Wouldn't it be better to talk about everything without witnesses? I promise I will tell you everything and none of your questions will remain unanswered..."

The lamp under the ceiling last time cracked and burst loudly, leaving in the air a sheaf of sparks. John and Gregory were left alone in the dark little room, and it seemed that even the voices of the police officers trying to kick the door and window glass were muffled. Of course, Gregory felt fear, but still not surprise. The man knew that such a moment would come, but he did not think that it would be so soon, on the very first day in Riddlehill. However, Gregory was simply obliged to return control over the situation, so silence now would simply aggravate it. It was necessary to tell everything cleanly right now. There was no other way out.

"Okay," the man nodded, taking another step towards the chair and sitting across from John. “I wanted to reveal the truth to you at another time and in another situation, more suitable than this. But if that’s how it works, fine. I'll start with the main one. You have no father or mother. You have always been just the fruit of a curse called the tribute to Elegba."