The Secret Life of Sam Holloway Read online

  A poignant and irresistible story about an improbable hero and the woman who saves him.

  Sam Holloway is a survivor, but he’s not really living. His meticulous routines and quiet lifestyle keep everything nice and safe—with just one exception...

  Three nights a week, Sam dons his superhero costume and patrols the streets. It makes him feel invincible—but his unlikely heroics are getting him into some sticky situations.

  Then a girl comes along and starts to shatter the walls Sam has built around himself. Now he needs to decide if he’s brave enough to take off the mask and confront the grief he’s been avoiding for so long. Heartfelt and delightful, The Secret Life of Sam Holloway is a moving story about grief, love and the life-changing power of kindness.

  The Secret Life of Sam Holloway

  RHYS THOMAS

  For Amy

  Contents

  THE PHANTASM #001

  Chapter 1

  THE PHANTASM #002

  Chapter 2

  THE PHANTASM #003

  Chapter 3

  THE PHANTASM #004

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THE PHANTASM #005

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  THE PHANTASM #006

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  THE PHANTASM #007

  Chapter 16

  THE PHANTASM #008

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  THE PHANTASM #009

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  THE PHANTASM #010

  Chapter 25

  THE PHANTASM #011

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  THE PHANTASM #012

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  THE PHANTASM #013

  Chapter 35

  THE PHANTASM #014

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  THE PHANTASM #015

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE PHANTASM #001

  A New Threat

  Only in darkness can a hero be born. An ordinary street, late at night, the land dyed orange by streetlight. The first cold of winter puts a bite in the air. Litter swept by wind, shuttered shops and a silent crossroads, parked cars already condensing a veneer of frost. Overhead, billions of years’ worth of stars shine on.

  A movement of the shadows across the bushes near the entrance to the train station. Yet not a shadow: a man, unseen by the world, a guardian watching the streets. In silence he waits. If crime never takes a day off, then neither does he. A mask covers his head and the top half of his face. Body armor protects his thorax and shoulders. The utility belt strapped to an assault vest houses all the equipment any superhero might need.

  A mist has spread. It’s too cold for most, but hidden in the bushes he lies in wait. His uniform is a camouflage; he fuses with the shadows to become imperceptible. His breathing low, he squints into the middle distance. A train pulls into the station, passengers climb off, scurry away to their safe homes. From his utility belt he takes a Toffee Crisp. It tastes good and he washes it down with some delicious Cherry Coke. Two of his favorites. There used to be a chocolate bar called Spira that he enjoyed with Cherry Coke, but low sales ensured its demise. What this dark hero would give for Cadbury to resurrect their masterpiece. Loss is often a hole.

  The train pulls away into the night. He can feel its rumble through his body and adjusts his position to get a clear view of the station entrance.

  A superhero in the twenty-first century must be patient. Old-fashioned crime is rarer than it was, but it still happens. Rumors are the scent a hero must catch. Hoodlums hanging around the station, throwing stones at passing trains, abusing passengers. He’d heard about it at the grocery store; all those patrons going about their weekly shop unaware they were in the presence of a silent guardian. Bag up your brown rice, old lady, don’t forget your change now. Safe journey. And thanks for the intel.

  And here he is now, waiting for his prey. Why do people do this? Why throw rocks at a train? Countless people could be killed. These punks lost their shot at mercy the minute they decided to operate outside the laws of the land. Whatever retribution is dealt to them from the slamming fist of justice, they must accept with no quarrel. If the hand wavers, the kingdom falls. What these punks need is a shock, a jolt to guide them back onto the right tracks.

  Broken homes, ADHD, the internet, domestic abuse, poverty, the death of community; people are still responsible for their actions.

  Ah, here they come.

  Six of them. No, seven. Aged fourteen to sixteen at a guess. They’re wiry, though given substance by voluminous tracksuits and anoraks. Their tracksuit trousers have elastic bottoms; they look ridiculous.

  Our hero in the dark waits. Waits and watches. The youths saunter down to the entrance of the station and the guardian checks the view on the video camera. It’s switched to night vision and is recording everything.

  The boys lean against the fence. One of them spits. So far they are within the law and safe. But it won’t be long. He knows this, just as he knows the sun will rise in the east. He used to get this fact confused, mixed up east and west, but now there is no such doubt. He is completely clear on the fact, just as he is clear that if he waits here he will see these youths transgress the societal contract.

  Maybe a part of him wishes they would do it. There is a rage burning inside him like a coal seam on fire, a thousand-year-old furnace. This is his release.

  In the distance the sound of an approaching train, a freight train hauling the stuff of industry; our lone savior knows no passenger services are due until 10:47. The youths snap their heads round in the direction of the sound. Meerkats. An unspoken organization becomes apparent.

  They gather rocks from the pile of rubble left at the side of the road by some unsuspecting construction worker. Then the boys move silently into the station and ascend the footbridge until they are directly over the tracks.

  The avenger moves from his hiding place. To the boys he would appear as just a shadow shifting over the land. If they saw him. They won’t see him. Until it’s too late.

  Now he must make a decision: Does he act before they throw the rocks? Right at this moment an innocent train driver, a man keeping the economic cogs of the world turning, is heading blindly into a trap. Why should he have to go through this? The rocks will be thrown; they are already in miscreant hands. And so there really is no decision. He must act.

  He enters the station, silent as a rock passing through the infinity of deep space. He can hear the excited chatter of the boys as they crouch below the level of the bridge so the driver can’t see them. But in turn they are blind to the thing that hunts them. He moves up the steps and reaches into his utility belt, unclips a small glass globe of chemicals.

  The train is coming closer. The sound of the boys’ laughter is merging with the tumult of the engine. His heart is beating fast in its webbing and he closes his eyes. Forget the police; they’ve got bigger fish to fry. Sometime
s the only hands into which matters can be taken are those of a champion. And he is that champion. He is a hero.

  He thinks of all the good things in the world. They are worth defending.

  He pounces.

  “AAAARGH!” he shouts at the top of his voice and, without hesitation, he throws the globe of chemicals. It smashes against the ground and thick smoke billows out. The boys don’t move because they can’t see.

  The shadow moves through them, fast, light. He is ready for attack. Now!

  “THERE HAVE BEEN REPORTS OF ANTISOCIAL BEHAVIOR IN THIS AREA. IT’S AFFECTING THE VICTIMS AND THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE NEARBY, WHO HEAR YOU SHOUTING AND SWEARING! DESIST, OR I WILL COMPILE A FILE OF EVIDENCE AND PRESENT IT TO THE AUTHORITIES! THIS IS—” He coughs. Dammit. There’s more smoke than he expected. This won’t help his asthma. Would they understand him if he was wearing a gas mask, though? He wipes his eyes. “THIS IS...your last warning!”

  And then, just a mountain breeze through a gully, he is gone. He coughs and his eyes are streaming as he tumbles down the steps. The boys are not following him. He slips and falls.

  “What is that?”

  He spies through blurry eyes one of the boys gazing down at him from the top of the steps. He must be strong now. He leaps to his feet in an athletic thrust.

  “Know me!” he manages. “I am...the PHANTASM!”

  And then, through the smoke, justice served for another night, the freight train moving safely into the distance, he is running, running into the shadows, the lanes, the alleys, the places we don’t see, heading courageously for his next exciting adventure.

  1

  THE OCTOBER SUNLIGHT slicing through the windows behind the sink, that season-change vigor in the air, he stood in his beautifully finished kitchen and thought to himself, This is okay. I can live like this quite happily forever.

  The house was desperately quiet, but Sam never noticed the despair.

  Two slices of hand-cut wholemeal toast covered in scrambled eggs topped with baked beans. He was a big believer in not rushing beans. When preparing a meal, he always put them on first, brought them to a boil and let them simmer on a low heat while he cooked everything else. That way the beans went soft and the tomato sauce thick. People rushed beans, just got them hot and ate them. But there is an art to everything in life, even beans.

  On the first morning of a weeklong stretch of annual leave Sam liked to do nothing more than spend a few moments just enjoying his house. It was a lovely house and it made him feel exceptionally comfortable. As the beans softened, he took in the neatness of the kitchen, the clutter-free surfaces, the breakfast bar and the oak table and chairs, the matching toaster and kettle, the shiny chrome microwave, the spotlights set into the plasterwork of the ceiling. Everything nice and simple. Simplicity is the fuel of the soul, his father once said.

  Sam lived alone in a semidetached house on a housing estate less than ten years old. His front garden had a small, well-kept square of lawn, some shrubs growing in a border along one side and a pristine black driveway. It didn’t look like the house of a twenty-six-year-old man.

  In the living room he had his CDs and DVDs and Blu-Rays in order, had his entertainment system comprising an HDTV, Blu-Ray player, Xbox, Chromecast, hi-fi and even a video player, all the wires neatly hidden away.

  He went to work at a job with a low level of responsibility, which he could put at the back of his mind at the end of each day, saved a little money each month, had two spare rooms for an office and a library, a conservatory for reading and relaxing, and a spacious back garden with a pond at the far end. And of course he pulled on the mask and costume of the Phantasm and diligently fought crime three nights a week. That these things made him contented because they papered over the cataclysmic vortex of loneliness that threatened to pull him apart in the darkest stretches of the night was neither here nor there.

  He stared at the beans and listened to the unique silence a house makes on a nondescript Monday morning when the rest of the world has gone to work.

  * * *

  The sea. The open fetch, the roll and swell. Sam loved the ocean, and on the first day of his annual leave routine he always drove out to the coast. There was a little café he liked, hunkered down into the cliff with big windows, where he could empty his mind completely, sit and stare out at the water for an hour or two with a steaming pot of tea and a custard slice.

  But before that he needed to pick up some supplies, so he stopped off on the high street of his little hometown for some chocolate and a bottle of Cherry Coke. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A sick dread crashed through him, thinking it might be work asking him to come in. But it wasn’t. It was a message from his friend Tango.

  Pub tomorrow?

  Sam pocketed the phone and felt annoyed at having his routine disturbed. He didn’t want to go to the pub. He stood on the pavement for a moment and let the cold air press into his face.

  “Give me some money.”

  Standing in front of him suddenly was a female homeless person. She was short and a little dumpy, shoulders slumped forward, probably late forties with thick, frizzy black hair.

  “I’m sorry?” said Sam.

  She fixed him with a stare of extraordinary power.

  “Give me some money.” The aggressive demand was tempered by the softness of her voice, the quiet pitch of it, the gentle lilt of an Irish accent.

  “Erm,” he said, fishing in his pocket and landing on a fifty-pence piece. “Here you go.”

  The female homeless person stared at the coin, took it and shoved it into the pocket of her coat, the hem of which was caked in dry mud.

  “Buy me a sandwich,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Buy me a sandwich there.”

  “I just gave you fifty pee.” Sam already donated plenty of money to various charities and felt a little affronted at what he thought were slightly excessive demands. “Can’t you just ask someone else? If you get a few more fifty pees, you can get a sandwich.”

  “Buy me a sandwich.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No,” he said, finally.

  “Come on. Just there.” She nodded toward a bakery a few doors down. Her voice was so gentle, like a breeze blowing through the canopies of a thousand-year-old cedar forest in a Nepalese valley, and Sam suddenly found himself walking down the street with her. Well, there but for the grace of God go I, he consoled himself. I’m being kind, not mugged.

  “So what’s your name?” he said, glancing across at her.

  She walked with purpose toward the bakery, hands thrust in her pockets, her gaze fixed steadfastly straight ahead.

  “Gloria,” she said. “You?”

  “Sam.”

  “I like Samuel as a name,” she said, distractedly, her voice coming in and out on the wind.

  “My name’s Samson actually. It was my great-grandfather’s name. Where are you from?”

  “Cork.”

  “I like Ireland,” he said.

  “It’s shit,” she said.

  They reached the bakery and Sam held open the door for Gloria, who moved past him hungrily, heading not for the bank of sandwiches but the drinks. She put her hand on a can of San Pellegrino.

  Those are quite expensive, Sam thought to himself. It was those pieces of foil on the top. But then Gloria’s hand drifted away to the Cokes, which were more reasonably priced. That’s better, he thought. Not that he’d agreed to buy a drink, not that he’d even given verbal consent that he would buy her a sandwich. At the last moment her hand swept away from the Cokes and up to the fresh smoothies shelf, where she selected orange and mango. This was priced at £2.65.

  Beverage chosen, she moved on to the next stand.

  “Have they got any soup?” she wo
ndered aloud.

  “I don’t think they do soup.”

  “Ah,” she said, forlorn. “I guess I’ll just have a sandwich, then,” before lifting from the shelf not a sandwich but a large baguette. Turning, and not looking at Sam, Gloria made her way to the counter.

  “My husband died a year ago,” she said. “Fell down of a heart attack.”

  The words drifted into Sam and amplified the sense of sorrow that had grown in him toward her.

  “I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said.

  The immediate thoughts of his own experiences of life tugged at him. He quickly went into default mode and cleared them away with little fuss, the cool numbness releasing itself into his body.

  Gloria veered to the center of the shop, where a small island with bags of miniature pasties stood, and she helped herself to one. Sam tried to tot up how much this was all going to cost as Gloria then grabbed a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

  The shop assistant smiled at her.

  “Are you eating in or taking away?” she said.

  Sam noticed a couple of chairs and tables against the wall. They charged extra for...

  “Eating in,” Gloria announced.

  Detecting that she was a homeless person and that Sam was her patron, the assistant glanced across to him.

  “Eating in,” he echoed.

  “And I’ll have a coffee, please, love. Americano. Black,” Gloria said.

  Again the assistant looked at Sam. Gloria surveyed the donuts in the glass-fronted cake display on the counter.

  “Anything she wants!” he said. “Get her anything she wants!”

  “Small, regular or large?” the assistant asked.

  Sam grimaced, but Gloria suddenly conceded. “I’ll just have a regular,” she said, and wandered off to the little shelf next to the counter, where they kept the sugars, leaving Sam to pay.

  “You sure you’re okay with this?” the assistant said.

  Gloria was stuffing sugar sachets into her pockets.

  “Yeah. Stick a couple of donuts in there too,” he said.