He turned to his stirring family, rocking with the flood of his returning tears, whining a half-muttered litany. He had tried. God knew he had. The rustling came closer, filling every window. Misra was pushing herself upright, shrieking his name, and Iye was crying, mouth wide, eyes confused. Dapo blocked them from his mind, trying to see outside. Emotionless faces, alien and familiar, appeared at the window, cold breath clouding glass, diminishing. Purple eyes stared. Hard bodies thumped against doors. When they began to fumble for the door handles with unwieldy, stubbed fingers, Dapo threw back his head and wailed.

DARK MATTERS

The world beyond his room had grown mysterious, untrustworthy. He spent whole days alone, his parents downstairs, lying belly-down on the carpet, sketching and colouring images. At first, during his early years, Max responded to the graffiti everywhere he went, the characters and wild styles and throw-ups, the improbable mix of colours that seldom met in the natural world. When he grew older he searched above, up towards the light-saturated night sky. His canvas became larger, moving from school notebooks to A3 sheets. He began to conjure nebulae, solar systems, distant dwarf stars that shone pale milk blue, the lifeless glow of dead planets. His parents grew worried. To them his pictures were of nothingness, empty dead space, cold and isolated. His mother complained to Aunt Lina that he’d lock himself away for hours, rarely coming down to eat; and even when he did, he wouldn’t speak. His father eyed him with sullen concern, mouth opening and closing, cigarette poised by his lips, grasping for language never caught.

Max knew what he feared most; the odd looks, that slow creep away, and in strange, laughable contrast, the trailing six steps behind him in every shop, his newfound size met with awe and some distress. The previous summer he felt people thought him charming, possibly lovable. Without warning all that had changed. Now he was a foreign body causing panic. A threat.

He lay stretched on his stomach painting a watercolour cloud of blue in red when Noel knocked for him. His neighbour lived two streets away, so their mothers made sure they walked to school together, hoping to deter rougher neighbourhood youths. When the boys reached their school gates they split like torn paper, staying apart until it was time to go home. Max didn’t blame him. He liked Noel. He was short, not self-conscious, confident and popular with girls, boys and teachers, humorous and knowledgeable without seeming quirky. Once, at lunch, Noel spent ten minutes stabbing every chip on his plate onto a fork with intent precision while the entire population of the school hall watched, applauding as he crammed the soft-spiked bunch into his mouth.

At the knock, Max half-rolled over, knowing who it was. There was nobody else it could be.

‘Come!’

The door eased open, stopped. Noel’s head appeared.

‘Yes, Maximilian!’

‘Bruv. I told you not to call me that.’