Chapter 1 – A rude awakening? – Swarming superheroes – a blast from the past

I felt it before I heard it. A wave of pressure easing me over to the side of the room then the ‘BOOM’ hit, gave the place a shake, the anger spilling out of me, ‘Christ, not tonight -’ 

I flinched, checked to see if they’d woken Mum up. Because there’d have been hell to pay if they had, I’d have been raging. Bloody superheroes or not, I’d be phoning the police, making a complaint. 

It had been a nightmare getting her to sleep, the drugs taking ages and now the daft wee glass ornaments on the dressing table were levitating, floating a good inch above where they should be, dancing about, the mirror rattling like it was having a laugh. The aftershock shoogling the air set off a buzzing in my chest and I coughed. But Mum, thankfully, was oblivious, snoring away. 

Once I’d got breath back enough to sigh, those ornaments floating back to where they should be, everything settling, I risked tiptoeing to the curtains to check the all clear. But my timing was rubbish, a blaze of white blinding me. I pulled the curtain back quick but it didn’t make much difference, the walls bright like there was a bloody great lighthouse outside our top floor flat. 

A second later it was back to darkness and I was whispering ‘Bastards’ when a band of green crept round the edges of the window, raced about the room, stopped a few inches down the headboard above Mum’s head. Was it the Northern Lights maybe? Because from what I could remember The Fenian had been banned from Dundee airspace. Whoever it was, they were being a right nuisance and as I thought that the green vanished, left her alone. 

Rubbed my eyes, tried to ease the sleep away. Mum’s alarm clock read 1:06am. A school night as well. I figured the drugs would keep her quiet until about 5am as long as those idiots didn’t cause any more bother. 

Shuffling towards her, eyes still blurry from the flash of light, I stubbed my toe on the bedside table, had to stifle my ‘Oyah!’ sitting heavily on the bed. After I’d fiddled with the baby monitor, I stroked the hair back from her forehead.  Like the way she used to when I was wee and ill. It was nice to see the tension away from her face, the pain gone. She looked younger. Well again almost. 

As she’d slept through the earlier racket I was hoping she’d make it to a decent hour without waking up. It worried me though when I was that tired. Sometimes it’d be fine and I’d hear her voice straight away, crackling with fear over the monitor, calling for Dad. Other times it would take a while for me to wake up. I’d only know she needed me when my dreams turned bad. 

Like I was on this big weird wooden boat and Dad was somewhere below decks but there’s a storm at sea and Mum’s out there in the waves, trying to swim but drowning slowly and I have to decide who I’m saving and when my hand grips the rail, I wake up.

I yawned wide enough for my jaw to crack. At least there hadn’t been the usual tears. A moan about Colin’s job prospects, her going on about having a brandy and me telling her no but other than that –

ZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOOOMMMM!

‘Fuck – !’ I nearly threw myself to the floor and the jolt of movement woke her up, eyes flickering. ‘Cathy? Is that… was that, was it thunder or something…? And were you…were you swearing?’

‘No, no Mum, you’re fine, we’re fine, it’s nothing. One of those -’ and I censored myself ‘- one of those tubes. See? This is what I was talking about. About us moving to a lower flat, because that way like the occupational therapist was saying, you’d be able to get out more easily plus we wouldn’t have these flying numpties -’ but she wasn’t listening. Tutting, working her head against the pillow, getting comfy, eyes closing against my rant. A minute or so later she was snoring softly again.

I was right though. It was dangerous up there, not just because she could have a fall going down the stairs. There’d been an article in The Scotsman about police helicopters getting fitted with breathalysers, superheroes having a few drams before they put their capes on. Just because they’d got superpowers, didn’t stop them being Scottish. But there was no telling her. She’d get sentimental, going on about the view of the Tay, how elegant the rail bridge was, Tayport misty in the distance. How she and Dad bought this place for the sunsets. Not that Dad was here to see them now. Wherever he was. 

Anyway. 

I leant over, gave her a kiss goodnight. Not a murmur. Dead to the world and the second I thought the ‘d-word’, I wished that I hadn’t.

I should have got straight to bed knowing the next day at work was going to be hellish in the aftermath of the nonsense outside. But walking past the ladder to the attic, I stopped. Although I didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to give those lunatics the satisfaction, part of me wanted to see what was going on. It was like when you’re sitting at home and hear fireworks going off somewhere in the city. You know they’re miles away and you won’t see anything but you end up standing at the window, staring at impossible angles, trying to get a view. 

What put me off was it was stupidly late and up there was my old room. Kept like a shrine up there. As if I’d died. Still, I told myself, I could have a look around, decide what I was going to chuck. I was nearly thirty and there was loads of junk I should have got rid of years ago. I’d been meaning to do it since I moved back but what with Mum and work and everything, I hadn’t had the chance. Five, ten minutes, I’d give it. 

The Studio I used to call it, pretentious wee git I was, though in my defence I was an art student. Used to spend hours up there, Mum passing meals up, nipping down to the toilet when I thought the coast was clear. There was room enough for a small bookcase made by me and Dad out of some planks from a skip, an old-fashioned school desk (the hassle we had getting that up there), and a plastic chair that was too big for it. Every other square inch stuffed with piles of comics, and sketchbooks covering the rug I’d made out of squares of carpet taped together from a book of samples Dad had got. The walls covered in pictures, cartoons and comic book covers mostly, some old movie stars – Marlene, Marilyn, Liz Taylor. And yes, it did feel like being stuck inside the head of a fourteen-year-old baby dyke but I surprised myself by liking it. It felt cosy. I could understand why I’d spent so much time up there.

I went to switch the bare bulb on but realised the light of the moon was enough, clear and bright, giving everything a silvery glow. That and the other lights. The weird ones, the supernatural glow of those show-offs. Which is when it clicked. A full moon. That’s why they were at it, waking up the locals. 

Ish had told me about it once in the pub after I’d started winding her up, slagging the Heroes. ‘I mean, bridges. What is it with you superhero types and bridges. Is it some tourist attraction thing? And why every month? Is it like, hormonal? Like periods or something?’

She hadn’t risen to it, hadn’t used her powers to blow my eardrums out like any normal superhero would have done when dealing with her drunken girlfriend (not ex. Not then). Instead she’d given me this ‘You wouldn’t understand’ look which was only just starting to wind me up. She’d gone to speak then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. None of us know. It’s stronger in some than in others and it just sort of…happens. Y’know?’ I nodded, even though of course I didn’t know, what with me being Normal. ‘Whenever there’s a full moon we feel the pull. It’s like…pigeons.’

‘Pigeons? What…like, werepigeons?’ I snorted and we laughed, the tension easing.

‘Yeah, OK, maybe that’s a bad example but you know how no one’s sure how pigeons find their way when they’re flying…’ and it was my turn to give her a look. ‘So I’m not explaining it very well but it’s -’

‘Big bloody pigeons,’ I’d said, taking a gulp of my pint. ‘Dangerous pigeons with laser eyes and killer breath,’ and that was the tension back again. Well done me. Like some toxic superpower. The gift of ruining a decent evening.

Ish. It had been a while since I’d seen her and I wondered if she was out there. I listened carefully, tried to make out from the warped ‘Whumphs’ and ‘Krraaackkks’ if there was singing going on. Ish’s song, the Silver Selkie letting rip. 

Not that I was fussed if she was there or not. None of my business what she got up to. If she wanted to hang about with a load of guys in dodgy spandex under bridges, that was up to her. Got her new friends to play with. 

A dark blue light started to fill the room like water rising up past the window and I knew what that meant, who’d arrived to join the party. I craned my neck to see the moon turn blue with the white Saltire across it. What was really annoying was my heart started beating faster, letting me know I was as much a sucker for celebrity as anyone else. 

The Fantoosh, the Phantom Fantoosh, greatest Scotsman ever born, out there strutting his stuff. Imagine a cross between a young Sean Connery and a Billy Connolly who can fly and lift really heavy stuff. Expressing so much charisma one flash of a smile would see a thousand Grannies swoon.

Flash git.

I was determined not to look, not turn into another fan-girl. I sat down at my desk instead, flicked through the notebook lying on top until I came to the drawing. 

A man, a superhero with kiss-curl in place, cape flapping about behind him, one arm stretched out in front of him to help ease him through the air, the skyscrapers surrounding him, ‘CAPTAIN FANTASTIC!’ in careful capitals arching above him. And I wondered if I realised the resemblance at the time. How much he looked like my Dad.

I must have been, what, fifteen when I drew it? Thinking I had a whole dazzling career as a comic book artist stretching ahead of me. Hah. What if I’d known the truth, what was going to happen ten years later? That when the great leap forward in humanity took place on my front doorstep, superheroes sprouting everywhere, I’d be working as a bloody civil servant, clearing up the mess. Probably chucked myself out of the attic window.

I traced a finger round Captain Fantastic’s jawline, trying to keep the bitterness at bay. Maybe I knew back then what was going to happen to Dad and this was me trying to keep a hold of him. Something to remember him by, before he disappeared. 

No. Didn’t disappear. Was taken. By Kannyman, that mad bastard or superbeing or multidimensional whatever-the-fuck they are, who’d taken my Dad along with twenty-nine other Scots. Shortly after that came the Change, Superheroes popping up all over the place, then the folk with Abilities and Christ, I wanted my Dad back. Everything back to normal because normal was good. 

I slammed the book shut, told myself it was the dust causing my eyes to prickle. I tapped the top of the desk then remembered what might be hidden there. Creaked up the lid and…result! Still there, left from the last time I was up, was a half-empty packet of Marlboros and a quarter bottle of vodka, so cheap the label read only ‘Vodka’. 

‘Faaantastic!’ and I looked up out the window to see the Fantoosh surrounded by his blue and white shimmery glow flying low along the top of the Rail Bridge. As he passed a shower of glittering purple sparks fell from him, lighting the length of the bridge, the colour of thistles and heather falling into the river. Naturally because the Fantoosh took this whole being Scottish business very seriously. His sponsors would be disappointed if he didn’t get his colour-scheme right. 

I hated to admit it but it did look impressive. Breath-taking even. Put those poncy Edinburgh Festival Fireworks to shame. Aye, bonny Dundee, yah bas! 

I pulled open the window and moved the desk back to sit on it while leaning on the window sill. The fag was dry, crackled when I lit it, wouldn’t last two minutes but it had been such a long night, the hit of it was bloody wonderful.

I took a swig of the vodka, gasping as I gulped.  A few years back there’d have been crowds gathering to watch a spectacle like this, the police involved, keeping people back. Now it was random insomniacs like me and some die-hard fans braving the cold to stand by the side of the Tay, cheering on their favourite, hoping for a photo or an autograph. 

I did feel some of it that night though. The old magic, when the Change was starting to happen, miracles reported every half hour. I got a shiver up my spine and it wasn’t just from the cold. Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe the vodka, but the sweep of the bridge, that massive blue moon electrifying everything, giving the water a satiny look…it got to me. And I felt like that fourteen year old again, in thrall to superpowers. 

There were figures caped and in skin-tight suits swooping and dancing around the bridge’s struts, playing chicken with a train (there’d be complaints about that), strange electrical charges causing the rails to glow orange, concrete seeming to bend and flow, twisting out into curling decorations. Mini typhoons burst up from the water, dark coloured rainbows rose and vanished. That’d be the Northern Lights, the Cauld Blast causing the blizzard blanking some of the bridge from view, while the blazing horse, the Kelpie, with its flaming mane rode the waves under it, over to Tayport with that idiot, the Golden Eagle swooping down too close, nearly getting his wings singed, feathers skimming the surface of the water to cool them. 

And all the while, looping the loop above them, the Phantom Fantoosh was leaving a trail of blue and white behind him, making Paisley patterns in the air, and his turns were so graceful, it was hypnotic watching and I forgot how sometimes on the TV he could come across as a bit of a sleazy chancer, with his day-old stubble and his floppy quiff. Here, he was like some kind of King. 

I was starting to get it. Starting to get the point of the whole Flighting business. Since the Change, the first Change when the superheroes appeared, most of them have gone corporate. Turned up to open supermarkets, endorsing healthy eating campaigns, promoting Scottish tourism. Well, wasn’t as if the country was overrun with supervillains, was it? Here they were enjoying the chance to let their hair down. Let rip. The equivalent of the rest of us, the Normals, getting wasted on a Friday night. I was almost feeling sympathetic, a wee tear in my eye as the fireballs and snowballs and – what was that? ectoplasm? – flew about when I heard it. 

No, not it. Ish.  

Her song started as a drone, so low I wasn’t sure if it was there or not, had to tilt my head to catch it. Then it snagged my ear and poured in, filling me up with an ache, a sweet, sad tone calling me, seeping into my soul, making it thrum and I knew I didn’t deserve to hear it, it was too beautiful, too much. Like Liz Fraser and Jeff Buckley and Billie Holiday and Billy MacKenzie combined, too good and pure for the likes of me.

It was Ish but not my Ish. Not any more. She’d become the Silver Selkie and she’d set the bridge singing, ringing out in perfect pitch, turning it into one giant instrument.  Some of the music was like a celebration but some of it was full of sadness too. It was like she was saying, singing out full-throated, ‘Hey! You! All you miserable normal folk, come and look! Isn’t this amazing! Isn’t it incredible! And it’s awful and cruel that you can only watch and we get to do this stuff! And how, can somebody please tell me why, did everything get so beautifully, so wonderfully, so very fucked up!’

I listened a few minutes more until I’d had enough, couldn’t bear it and slammed the window shut against the chill and Ish’s song. Listened instead for my Mum crying in the dark.