The Pickpocket

Chapter 19 - Owen?

“Owen?” I said shakily. Laughter sounded in my head, echoing the laughter of up above. Suddenly it stopped.

Ouch!Evil Owen said, sending pain through my body. That hurt. A lot. Man, your dad can pack a punch!

“You ain’t Owen!” I cried, confidence giving my voice strength, “that’s too modern for Owen to say. What are you?”

His trapped, evil side, Evil Owen replied. Here, I can materialise if you want. But controlling Owen, walking around in his head… it was just so easy.

A blurry shape formed in front of me. It looked like Owen but darker and with black eyes instead of pale blue ones. He smiled to reveal sharp fangs like razor blades. I took a step backwards.

“Okay…” I said slowly, taking in Evil Owen’s appearance. He was wearing a black T-Shirt and dark grey jeans. A black jacket and fingerless black gloves finished the outfit.

“What do you think, Jamie?” Evil Owen said, his voice more gravelly and deeper than Owen’s. “Do I look cool?”

“Is goth-satanist-emo cool?” I replied. Evil Owen frowned, trying to work out what I’d said and translate it into older terms. Eventually he worked it out and his face clouded with anger. I was driven backwards until my back was against a rapidly melting ice column.

“Jamie Hatchett,” Evil Owen hissed, his face centimetres away from mine. “Do you want to leave here alive, or dead?”

I took my time replying. I’d spotted something, something next to my left foot. “Alive, please.”

“What about your dad?” Evil Owen sneered, moving even closer. I turned my head sideways until I could feel him breathing in my ear. Now I could see clearly the thing that I’d spotted.

“Him too.”

“And Owen? Your only friend, after Ceylon?” That comment made me gasp.

“How do you-?!” I spluttered, twitching my foot so that the shining object was now directly beneath my foot. Evil Owen grinned, unaware that this was happening. I could see him lean closer to my ear out of the corner of my eye.

“Your dad told Owen,” he purred, evil distorting his voice, “and you didn’t answer my question.”

I thought about this. If Owen lived, Evil Owen lived. If Evil Owen died, Owen might die or get mentally damaged. If Evil Owen lived, I was a dead boy walking. Or crawling. I’d seen a hacksaw strapped to the back of Evil Owen’s belt.  

“Can I phone a friend?” I asked hopefully. Evil Owen laughter, a manic sound that echoed around the pit.

“You have no friend's apart from Owen,” he whispered, so close I could feel his lips on my ear. They were so cold, like a corpse might be. Deathly cold and deathly pale. Dead. And how did you kill something that was already dead?

“You don’t,” I said out loud, finishing my train of thought with a triumphant grin, “but you can run from it!”

“What?” Evil Owen frowned and took a step back. This was the opportunity I needed. Flicking my ankle so that the object underneath my foot skidded across the ice, I dived through Evil Owen’s legs and caught it. Laughing, I climbed up one of the ice columns, jumping from the top of it to the ledge where Dad and real Owen were sat. Holding my prize tightly in my fist, I scampered away from the pit and beckoned Owen and Dad over.

“I got it,” I said breathlessly. Dad’s one eye was twitching and he looked troubled. Owen had a faraway look in his eyes and was frowning. I sighed and clicked my fingers in front of their noses. Owen blinked his way back to life first.