The Set Up (5 page)

‘Why are you doing all this?’ I said. ‘Helping me, I mean?’

‘Several reasons.’ Jack glanced sideways at me. ‘I was part of the original project so I feel involved. But it’s mostly because I want you to have a chance to fulfil your potential – and I know Fergus won’t let that happen.’

‘Why does Fergus hate what I can do so much? I mean, he actually called my abilities “evil” . . . said my mum would have hated them. He even tried to make me promise that I wouldn’t use them any more.’

Jack was silent for a few moments, then he pulled the car over and parked. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you last weekend,’ he said, his blue eyes bright and intense. ‘Something that explains Fergus’s reaction. But it’s not going to be easy for you to hear.’

‘What?’ I said, feeling nervous.

‘There was a problem with the Medusa gene. That is . . . d’you remember I told you it was embedded in a virus before it was injected into your umbilical cord?’

I nodded. ‘You said that was normal in gene therapy.’

‘It is, and William did all the necessary tests on the viruses he used, too – but the procedure is always risky.’ Jack hesitated. ‘Sometimes when you inject a gene code into what appears to be a harmless virus, the presence of the gene code makes the virus mutate . . .’

‘Mutate into something harmful?’ I frowned. ‘But I’m fine.’

‘I know.’ Jack sighed. ‘You were immune, but the viral DNA also seeped into the bloodstream of the carrier.’

‘The carrier?’ I stared at him, blankly.

‘The person carrying the baby injected with the gene synthesis.’ Jack shook his head. ‘In other words, your mother.’

A cold wave washed over me. ‘But . . . but my mum died of cancer,’ I said.

Jack nodded. ‘Yes. A cancer caused by the virus that the Medusa gene was embedded in.’

I froze. ‘But that means the gene . . .’ I could barely bring myself to think it, let alone say it. ‘That means my gene, my powers . . . that means
I
killed her.’ My voice was hoarse.

‘No.’ Jack shook his head again, more vigorously. ‘No way. It was an accident. Or, if anyone’s to blame it was William Fox. That’s why Fergus felt so responsible for you . . . because of what his brother had done. And that’s why he hates the gene inside you. But that’s like hating the wind for becoming a hurricane.’

‘But even so . . .’ My voice was strained. ‘Even so, if I didn’t have the gene she wouldn’t have died.’

‘No.’ Jack shook his head. ‘That’s not how your mum saw it, Nico. I met her twice – once before you were born, at that Christmas party; and once when you were a baby and William was dead. That second time, she
knew
that the Medusa gene . . . that it was going to kill her . . . and she saw the fact that she was going to die as a sacrifice she was making for you, so that
you
could be special. Your mum was
proud
of that sacrifice. And you should be proud too. You can’t let Fergus stop that sacrifice from counting. You should make the most of what you can do . . . of who you are . . . for your mum’s sake, if for nothing else.’

Jack smiled reassuringly, then revved up the engine. As we sped off, I tried to think it through. It was hard not to feel it was my fault Mum had died. And yet, Jack was right. I hadn’t asked to be injected with a gene wrapped inside a virus. Just as William Fox hadn’t known that the virus would kill Mum.

At least Jack had had the courage to tell me the truth, which was more than Fergus had done.

And if Mum had given her life for the Medusa gene the least I could do was make the most of its power.

Jack said nothing more as we zoomed round a series of streets, finally pulling up outside Arsenal’s Emirates stadium. We went inside and Jack led the way to brilliant seats – they must have cost a fortune – in one of the directors’ boxes.

Arsenal were playing a charity friendly against a Championship side I’d never heard of – Sweeton United. I tried to put what Jack had just told me to the back of my mind. At first I kept going over what he’d said but eventually the football sucked me in and I settled down to enjoy the match.

I forgot about my telekinesis – and Jack’s plan for me to use it to make money – until the game was nearly halfway through. The home team, clear favourites, had already scored two goals.

Then Jack leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘You know, I’ve got a bet on at six to one that Sweeton will win three-two.’

I stared at him. Why would he have made such a specific – and unlikely – gamble?

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Shame there’s no one here who could help them score.’

My heart thudded as I realised what he was saying.

Did I dare do what he was suggesting?

I stared at the pitch. The ball was near Arsenal’s goal, being successfully defended by one of Arsenal’s best centre backs. Without really thinking about it, I directed the ball away from his feet, towards the Sweeton striker. It bounced off his shin and into the goal.

The Sweeton fans erupted in cheers. Jack punched me on the shoulder. ‘Nice one!’

I stared at the pitch, too shocked to respond. Had I
really
done that? The striker looked as shocked as I felt. The scoreboard at the far end registered the goal. I
had
done it. I grinned.

‘Two more like that, my son, and we’ll be quids in.’ Jack laughed, as the whistle blew for half-time.

The second half started well for Sweeton. Clearly buoyed up by their earlier goal, they scored ten minutes into the half without any help from me. Then Arsenal got the ball and all of a sudden I was leaning forward, intent on the play, making sure the ball swerved and swung away from the goal whenever it got too close. I was totally in the match, in the moment, only barely aware of Jack sitting beside me, watching me.

The score remained at two-all for a long time. I was so focused on the game that it was a shock when he leaned over and said, ‘Only five minutes to go, Nico.’

That meant only five minutes for the winning goal to be scored. And the run of play for the past half an hour had definitely been with Arsenal. Panicking, I lurched forward in my seat, willing the ball to move down the pitch. Of course, as soon as I started trying so hard, the ball refused to move. I glanced at the clock. Only three minutes to go. Two minutes . . . Ketty’s face flashed in front of my eyes, Billy’s diamond earrings dangling from her ears.

I
had
to make this work. I couldn’t let Billy buy her away from me. I had to show Ketty how much I cared about her . . .

I looked at the clock again. Only one minute of the match remained. A hush descended on the football stadium, as if the crowd had given up and accepted the two-all draw.

I had to help Sweeton score. But there was less than a minute to go and the ball wouldn’t move for me any more. I could feel the panic swirling inside me. And then Jack put his hand on my shoulder.

‘Breathe,’ he whispered.

I breathed in, then out. My body released its tension. I focused once again on the game. The midfielders from both teams were fighting over the ball in the middle of the pitch. I waited for a Sweeton player to get a touch. Then I breathed in and lifted the ball.
Yes.
It soared all the way down the field. I breathed out. The ball bounced and swerved, just shy of the goal. Pushing away the anxious knot in my gut, I tried again.

This time the ball flew into the crowd. Crucial seconds passed while a new ball was produced. A corner. I glanced at the clock again.

Oh, crap.
We were already in extra time.

‘You can do this, Nico,’ Jack whispered.

I breathed in as the Sweeton player stepped up to the corner flag. Breathed out as the ball rose into the air. My eyes held it as it curved. It was going to miss the goal. The crowd were chanting a countdown.

‘Ten. Nine.’

I leaned with the ball, every fibre of my being flowing with it through the air.

‘Eight. Seven. Six.’

Just a little push. The slightest touch. I nudged the ball with my mind, my hands mirroring the movement.

‘Five. Four. Three.’

Wham!
It thudded into the back of the net.

The Sweeton supporters roared. The final whistle blew.

I sat back, out of breath, exhausted.

The Sweeton player who’d taken the corner looked completely shocked that he’d scored. He was soon buried under his cheering team mates.

‘Nico?’

I turned. Jack was open-mouthed, an expression of awe on his face. ‘That was amazing,’ he said. ‘I honestly didn’t think you’d be ready for that.’

My heart sank. ‘So you were kidding about the bet, then?’

‘Not at all.’ Jack leaped up from his seat. ‘I just meant I was prepared to lose the money. But you did it. Come on, let’s go and collect our winnings.’

By the time we got back to Jack’s mews house I was starving, but triumphant. Jack swung the car into the garage where I’d practised with the tyre the previous week. He parked up, then produced a thick wedge of ten-pound notes from his wallet. I waited while he counted out forty pounds.

‘My original bet,’ he said, tucking the money into his pocket. He held out the rest of the cash to me. ‘For you. That was
awesome
, Nico.
Amazing.
You’re a complete bloody natural.’

I stared at the money, suddenly unsure. ‘How much is there?’ I stammered.

‘Well, I bet forty quid at six to one, so you work it out.’ Jack grinned and offered the cash to me again, but I shook my head. Now that the money was in front of me, it felt somehow wrong to take it.

‘I don’t know . . .’ I rubbed my sweaty hands down my jeans.

‘Don’t know what?’

‘Um . . .’ I thought back to the football match. ‘What I did was . . . sort of cheating, wasn’t it?’ I stammered.

Jack pursed his lips. ‘Well, I suppose if you call giving the ultimate underdogs a fighting chance against a big shot team with more money than they know what to do with then, yes, it wasn’t particularly fair. But life isn’t. Come on.’

He offered the money again, but I shook my head. We stared at each other for a few moments. Jack frowned.

‘It’s . . . I mean . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I’ve got no problem really . . . I mean Sweeton scored one of their goals all by themselves . . . It’s just . . .’

‘Just what, Nico?’ Jack said, his voice tight. ‘Were you listening to what I said earlier? Your mother died for your gift. She would
want
you to use this amazing ability you have. She hated the fact that she was going to leave you all alone in the world. I know she would see what you did today as a small step towards helping you survive.’

I stared at him. ‘Even if it meant cheating?’

Jack’s eyes blazed. ‘Using your talents to get ahead
isn’t
cheating. It’s just common sense . . . making the most of the cards you’ve been dealt in life.’

I held up my hands. ‘Okay, okay, keep your hair on,’ I said. ‘This is all just really new for me.’

Jack smiled. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I should give you more time to adjust.’ He folded over the stash of bills in his hand. ‘Look, you don’t have to take it. I’ll give it to charity.’

‘Er . . .’ I stared at the money, working out how much must be there now that Jack had taken out his original bet. ‘That’s got to be two hundred and forty pounds,’ I said. That, surely, had to be enough money for Ketty to enter the marathon and find somewhere to stay in Scotland.

Jack chuckled. ‘The boy can add up.’

I swallowed. My throat was dry. Jack held out the money again. ‘Go on, take it,’ he said. ‘You can always give it away later.’

Well, giving it away was exactly what I was planning. I took the cash and shoved it into my pocket.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Jack got out of the car. ‘No, Nico, thank
you.
’

We went inside, to the kitchen, where Jack made me a large cheese sandwich. I was sitting at the table, wolfing it down, when Dylan walked in, carrying a shopping bag.

‘Hey.’ She smiled at me . . . a cool, slightly aloof smile.

Jack looked up. ‘Hey, Dylan. What d’you buy today?’ He turned to me. ‘Dylan’s only in London with her relatives for two weeks but I’m not sure there’ll be anything left in the shops by the time she goes home.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve had to give her a key so she has somewhere to stash it all!’