It’s Malcolm. He’s sure it’s Malcolm. He checks his Phantfone and, using his 4G, finds the news article. Malcolm has been missing for five months and the campaign to find him had become so widespread it had been picked up in the news. After she lost her husband, Malcolm was all Josephine Grabham had left. But Malcolm could not get over the grief of losing Private Andrew Grabham of the British Army and, when he went missing, the story touched the nation. It had spread like wildfire across all social media, there were coordinated teams out looking for him on weekends. The Phantasm looks at the photograph of Malcolm, his sad adolescent face, and compares it to the one looking at him from between the bins in the deserted lane. Whenever Private Grabham returned from a tour of the Middle East, Malcolm was the first to greet him, running across the tarmac of the barracks and jumping up at him, welcoming him home, licking his face wildly. Malcolm is a dog.
A lovely border collie with one green eye and one blue eye and a distinctive black-and-white pelt.
When the dark hero calls his name, the dog’s head tilts inquisitively to one side. It’s him. Slowly, the Phantasm moves in. He reaches out his arms and pictures the joyous face of Josephine when he returns her lost love. But it’s not going to be so simple. Malcolm bolts. He dashes past the masked champion of the night, who lunges but misses, and off he sprints up the lane. Immediately the Phantasm is after him.
But boy is he fast. He wishes he’d brought his bike, because Malcolm is getting away. Out into the main street the dog is up ahead, dodging traffic, and the hero’s heart leaps into his mouth. Between the headlights of the cars the dog is making a beeline right up the centre of the road. There is no choice. Into the traffic he goes, following the animal. Horns blare, people wind down their windows, then wind them right back up again when they see the masked spectre hurtling towards them.
The dog is tiring and the guardian is almost within reach but, just before he can make a lunge, Malcolm darts to the left, into an oncoming Vauxhall Corsa. The driver can’t see the canine, for he is below the level of the bonnet, and without a thought for his own safety the Phantasm leaps out in front of the car, hoping the driver will spy him and slam on the brakes. This doesn’t happen. The front of the car misses Malcolm by a hair’s breadth. Quick as a flash, the Phantasm leaps into the air. Now the brakes screech, but it’s too late. He turns his body and his buttocks impact the front third of the car’s bonnet, sending him into a spin where he loses all sense of up and down. The sound as he bounces sideways across the steel is extremely loud, but he rolls off the other side before the windshield reaches him.
Picking himself up, he notices a huge dent in the Corsa. Not good. The vehicle is a shocking pink, emblazoned with the logo Shaniqua’s Nails and Brows. Shaniqua stares at the masked man before her, mouth open, the glow of her mobile phone underlighting her ample chin. An anonymous cash donation will arrive at Shaniqua’s boutique tomorrow. But his main priority is Malcolm, who’s hightailing it past the butcher’s. No time for sausages today. The dog looks over his shoulder, his tongue lolling with exertion. Yes, the Phantasm is still on you, my good man. His upper-body protection has seen him unharmed by the puny automobile.
The dog has found a gap under the fence into the train station and is on the empty platform when the hero joins him. His head is low and he looks up with puppy-dog eyes. There is a space between them of perhaps twenty feet. Nineteen. Eighteen.
‘It’s OK, Malcolm, I’m going to take you home.’
The dog seems to trust him. Or perhaps it is more akin to respect.
‘Ooh, you’re a handsome gentleman, yes you are,’ says the costumed crusader. Thirteen. ‘What a lovely, lovely boy you are, Malcolm. A true gent.’
The dog stares at him.
‘You’re such a well-behaved young man.’
Eight.
There is a rumbling behind him, which comes on fast. Malcolm’s ears prick up. Before him, the Phantasm’s shadow lengthens. It’s the London train. Fast, long, too busy to stop at a little station like this. Malcolm leaps up.
‘No!’
The dog jumps on to the line, which screeches electrically. Somehow he avoids stepping on the tracks.
The hero freezes for a second. The ground is shaking. And then he is in the air, dropping down. The sound wave of the train’s frenzied horn clatters through him. He’s misjudged this. He’s not going to make it. He throws his arms around Malcolm’s midriff and they tumble. With every last inch of strength the Phantasm leg-thrusts towards the far side just as the train whistles past, the sensation of its turbulence tearing at his clothes as it tries to suck him back on to the tracks. He manages to dig his free hand into the rocks between the opposite tracks and hold on, smothering Malcolm as the train screeches by. And when it is over, and the world stops shaking, he gets to his feet, a true hero, Malcolm spread across his arms like a baby, frenziedly licking the Phantasm’s face.