Being punched in the face is sore. Really sore. A boxer once said, ‘Everyone has a plan until they’re punched in the face.’ That’s true. You might think, well, if he punches me I’ll do my kung fu moves, or fold him into a little paper duck using origami. But you won’t because you’ll be too busy saying, either out loud or to yourself, ‘Ouch, that was a sore one,’ or if you were lucky enough to be Scottish, ‘Oohya, owya, that wis a dull yin.’
Extolziby had one advantage in a fight, though. It wasn’t his super-strength, although that helped. Nor was it any of his other abilities, although they helped too. The advantage he had was that, even though no one picked on him outside, at home he was quite used to fighting. In the Gruff family household, the grown-ups hit the kids, the kids hit each other, the dog beat up the cat (and the other way round), and the cat beat up the mice. So being hit or, as his family called it, ‘getting a dull yin’, still hurt, but it didn’t have quite the same shock value as it might have done if you’d grown up in a house where violence wasn’t considered a quite normal way of making yourself understood to others.
So, after the boy with the blond hair, who was called Joe ‘Nice one, Joe!’ Betsy had said had punched him, Extolziby stood there. He was thinking, Is that it? His wee cousin Diamanté could hit harder than that and she was only eight. And Joe didn’t know what to do. He was a Beta. When he hit someone they stayed hit, or at least fell over.
Joe went to punch him again. This time Extolziby put his arm up and blocked the blow. Betsy, the girl, moved towards Talura, and without even thinking about it, Extolziby stepped in the way. Talura shoved him aside. ‘I’m not afraid of her.’
There was a flurry of punches and kicks. Extolziby caught Joe a beauty, right on the chin, and he spilled backwards, losing his footing.
The next thing he knew there was the roar of an engine. Extolziby looked down the street, expecting to see a police car, but the only vehicle in view was a big black Range Rover. It was so new and so polished that the bodywork was like a mirror. The towering buildings of the Bodleian slid over the paintwork as it bore down on them, the front passenger-side tyre mounting the pavement. The squeal of brakes, still fresh in his mind, set his teeth on edge. The two Betas were backing off, running towards the Range Rover.
The back door popped open. The windows were tinted so he couldn’t see inside and the lights were on full beam so he couldn’t see through the clear glass of the windscreen either.
He looked around for Talura. She wasn’t there. Maybe she had run for the sanctuary of the college. He turned in a circle. Everything was pin-sharp, high definition, but he still couldn’t see her.
The two kids who had appeared from nowhere were getting into the car. There weren’t two. There were three. He heard a shout.
Talura.
He saw a flash of long blonde hair. Another shout. ‘Get the hell off me!’
Fighting them every inch of the way, kicking, arms thrashing, as they bundled her into the back of the Range Rover. The door slammed. The big 4x4 took off, making a sweeping turn in the middle of the street.
Extolziby started after it, legs pumping. He was fast. But he wasn’t fast enough. At first he gained on it, but then the black Range Rover found another gear and he was slipping behind.
He willed himself forwards. Buildings were whizzing past him now. He couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to. The squat black rear of the vehicle began to get smaller. It blasted through a red light.
He kept running. His heart was pounding out of his chest and he was having trouble catching his breath. It was no use. With every second it drew further away. Finally it was nothing but the dimmest red dot of brake lights on the far horizon. Then it was gone.
Extolziby stopped in the middle of the street. Except it wasn’t a street. There were no buildings. No streetlights. Only an avenue of trees.
His hands fell onto his knees and he bent over at the waist. He took several deep breaths. After a few minutes, he began to walk back. He would have to tell someone at the college. There was nothing else for it. He broke into a jog, then a steady run.
The countryside gave way to suburbs, then the old buildings of the university began to appear. Finally, he was back outside the Bodleian Library. He spotted something on the pavement. He bent down and picked up the college scarf Talura had been wearing. It must have fallen off in the mêlée.
This was his fault. If only he hadn’t insisted on going out. Now Talura was who-knew-where. He looked up at one of the gargoyles. It seemed to be laughing at him. He didn’t blame it. The only thing he could do now was put things right again. He was a post-sapiens, an Alpha, or whatever they called it. He had special powers. The two kids hadn’t been able to beat him in a fight. He had more than held his own. All they’d managed to do was distract him.
He held the scarf in his hands. Of course. That was the point. They hadn’t been trying to beat him up. They’d needed to distract him so they could grab Talura.
His mind made him strong but it hadn’t made him smart enough to stop them. He would come clean. He would tell Frank and the Principal everything. And the other kids. The other kids. If they hadn’t hated him before, they would now. That didn’t matter. Getting Talura back safe was all that counted. There was no going home now. There was no turning back. Not until he had found Talura.