He was born in a rusty bathtub filled with chlorine water. It was to Julie; a woman but not quite yet. An exchange student from France, a naïve, sheltered virgin tragically curious about a curly-haired man of frighteningly inviting demeanor. He'd been doing a second Master's, that's what he's been told, as his mother had been, two months after they'd had sex.

The bathtub was in a bathroom, and the bathroom was in a shed. A dusty kitchenette and a patchwork couch stuck out like sore thumbs in the enclosure. Neither Julie nor Peter were allowed to leave, neither had a pressing need, a burning desire, a scorching hot flame, simmering. Not anymore, not yet.

By the time he could crawl, Father had driven away in his camper van. He'd left two bucks; a small mercy. He was short on cash himself, disgraced, hunted by police for notorious sex offences slowly coming to light, no hope, no future, nothing to do but delve deeper into crime.

Julie died when Peter was twelve and Father had come and gone sevenfold. He didn't know why. He dug a hole under the ruthless midday sun and threw her corpse inside, either way. The gravelly earth provided the illusion of death by abrasion to the chest. The grave wasn't very deep, and the trickles of read on the outline of a female body shone through.

"Pew, pew, pew!" he whisper-shouts to himself, using the spots as target practice. Father was forgetful. He'd left a gun.

Father, now a man of forty-something years, face shaved biannually, trails of silver falling over his shoulders, a precious mineral. He trips over Julie, whether it's because he's old and stupid or evil and doomed to fail. Peter briefly considers whether he's simply surprised; but the human emotion could not possibly have spoken louder than the atavism that seemed to govern his very mind and being.

"If you miss her so much, why don't you join her?" he jokes, sitting cross-legged on the miniscule front porch, and mercifully allows a flash of recognition to enter the man's eyes before pouring milk all over them with a single practiced movement of the forefinger.

He drives his father's van into town. He crashes it into the orphanage. Peter has heard of the concept of friends. He wants some, too, after being denied them for so long.

Two kids hop right in, a lanky teen calling shotgun, a prepubescent girl tumbling onto the stinky back couch. Peter yells at her to leave and she complies.

The teen looks like he wants to inquire. A rehearsed gaze causes him to refrain. Peter likes to think he's got an influence.

Three more join; only boys, and Peter is pleased. He reverses just as the sirens begin to close in. The ride is pure bliss, tumbling through the grid of streets, jerking the steering wheel left and right, being the herald of mayhem, the bringer of carnage. A primal urge, sated.

The van is christened with a boisterous red spray-paint sign. Neverland. The live on the road, drive with the radio blaring and the windows down. They sleep in the back, huddled together in the cold of Arizona nights.

Peter takes the lead. He's young, almost the youngest, both in a biological and mental sense. He makes reckless decisions, stupid mistakes, a fuss out of everything.

Five years later, the lanky teen, George, his right hand, his second-in-command, the most faithful and supportive of them all, calls bullshit.

"You're seventeen, Peter," he says, radiating bitter disappointment. "We've all- we've wasted out lives with you. Put up with your childishness for so long. But we're adults, now. Nobody knows our names. Our faces. We- we can live, live like normal people, having normal lives!"

Peter looks at him, open-eyed, disbelieving.

"Think about it, Peter," he pleads. "You- you told us how you were born, and where. You don't exist. You can make yourself. Say you're from some nomad family and you want to settle down and get an identity with an ID to go with it. Live your life."

Peter stares.

George sighs. "What I'm saying is- I'm leaving. And I know some other want to, too. And they will. We will."

He whips his head around. Dejected faces. Guilt plastered onto them like a wanted poster plastered onto a brick wall.

"Grow up, Peter." A whip to the back. A belt to the chest. A slap to the face.

Lost. Lost to society, to purpose, to fate, to all that was, is, and will be, and to himself. They are not lost. They will never, Peter decides. They will never understand.

He is left to cruise the highway with dead silence as a companion, an empty fleshy case leaning against the front passenger seat, eyes looking forward, never back, and never to move from the one cause. Never to stray from the one life.

Never to grow up.

Never, ever, to grow up.

Challenge

The Boy Who Never Was

Re-imagine Peter Pan and the Lost Boys any way you please

markysparky in Fiction

95 reads

If You Cannot Teach Me to Fly, Teach Me to Sing

Prologue: ‘Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?’

I wasn’t sure, at first, as I looked through the window of the dingy cafe, whether or not I’d come to the right place. There was only one customer sitting within; a thickset grey-haired man with a worn leather briefcase at his feet, wearing a battered straw hat and a creased linen jacket. He had bushy eyebrows and a luxuriant moustache, deep-set eyes, droopy jowls and a weathered face. He looked considerably older than suggested by the high-pitched voice I’d conversed with several times on the telephone over the past two weeks. But the moment I entered, he stood up, beaming, and offered me his liver-spotted right hand. He’d clearly been on the lookout for me.

‘Miss Darling, I presume?’ Yes, it was him: the youthful tones were unmistakable, like the singsong tinkling of a fresh woodland brook. A little like the stream that used to run through the woodland at the rear of my childhood home. His voice also possessed a distinct Scots accent.

‘Yes,’ I replied, as I shook hands. ‘And you’re Mr–’

‘James,’ he interrupted. ‘Please, just call me James. That’s what my friends call me. I’m certain we shall be friends. That’s unless you want to call me what they did at school. Jimbo. From my initials JMB, you see.’

I couldn’t help but smile, despite my anxiety about this meeting. He was clearly trying to put me at ease. ‘Friendy-Wendy. That’s what my brothers used to call me when we were young. Just call me Wendy.’ I took the seat he offered, and looked down at the table. Lying next to his coffee-cup was a notebook and pencil, together with what was unmistakably a recording device: the tools of his trade. I frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared for our conversation to be recorded.’

‘I can assure you, it’s purely to ensure the accuracy of my transcript. No one will hear it, other than myself.’

I shook my head. ‘No. You can take written notes, if you must. But that’s all.’

There was an awkward silence, and I could sense that he was weighing up his options. A waitress bustled over, and asked if she could take my order. I ignored her for a moment. After all, there was no point in staying if he wasn’t going to agree to my terms.

‘Very well, Wendy,’ he said. ‘I accept your condition.’ He reached for the recorder; but I got to it first, and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket.

‘You can have this back when we’re finished, James,’ I promised, patting my pocket lightly.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fair enough.’

I glanced down at the cafe’s menu card, lying on the table. Another voice, from long ago - the voice of one whom I had once cared for so very much - echoed in my mind. ‘Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?’

I smiled to myself at the memory, and looked up at the waitress. She reminded me of Liza, our old maid. ‘A pot of Earl Grey tea, please.’

My companion picked up his notepad. ‘Where shall we begin?’

I smiled. ‘At the beginning, I suppose.’ I glanced at the clock on the wall of the cafe. It was precisely three o’clock. ‘Tick-tock,’ I murmured. ‘There goes the croc.’ I looked into his puzzled eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s an old family saying. This might take a while.’

‘Just take your time. Like you said - from the beginning.’

Chapter One: ‘All children, except one, grow up’

I was the eldest of three children. My parents were George Darling and Mary Ansell. They married relatively late in life - both just shy of forty - after a chance encounter with one another in Kensington Gardens. Mother would often proclaim it to us as love at first sight (at least on her part) though Father was always more diffident on the subject, whenever we asked. Their engagement was short, and I was born just a few months after their first wedding anniversary. They wanted children, and there seemed little point in hanging around. Two years later my brother John, Father’s favourite, was born; and then another two years after that came Michael. That was the hardest pregnancy of all for my mother; she nearly died during the delivery. We knew there could be no additional children after Michael was born, though I think both my parents would have liked more. Michael quickly became the favourite of Mother and myself. Darling Michael, rather than Michael Darling, we would call him. Or even just DM. I wasn’t anybody’s particular favourite; but I didn’t mind.

For as long as I can remember Father was often away from home with work. He was already quite high-up, by the time he married Mother, in the scientific research company that employed him. (No, I’m not going to give you the name of it, James. Some things will remain secret, even now. Let’s just call it ‘the Company’.) When I was two and a half, just after John was born, we moved out of our modest apartment in Bloomsbury, and into a rather splendid house in the Hertfordshire countryside. It was named Neverland.

My earliest memory is of playing hide and seek with Mother amongst the rose trellises, the tiger lillies and arching honeysuckles scattered around the walled garden at the rear of our new house. I remember that I plucked one of the roses and ran with it to Mother. She put her hand to her heart and cried: Oh, why can’t you remain like this forever! I knew that day that eventually I must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

The two years that preceded Michael’s birth, and the six years that followed were the happiest of my life. During those years we’d have occasional visits from distant cousins, or other children living in the neighbourhood. But mostly it was just us. We played all manner of games in the extensive gardens of Neverland, and the adjacent ten acres of unkempt forested land that also belonged to the estate. There was no name for it on the local maps; but we called it the Neverwood. Here we imagined ourselves as bold adventurers fighting against pirates, or American Indians. Beneath the roots of our favourite oak tree in the Neverwood, we hollowed out a den. Somewhat overenthusiastically we named it the Home Under the Ground. The Home At the Side of Some Protruding Roots would have been more accurate, if less impressive. There was also a large lagoon in the middle of the woods, which was covered with a riot of water lilies from May to September. Sometimes we imagined that we could see mermaids gathered on the far shore of the lagoon; and John was adamant that sometimes he saw flamingos flying over it. It was a magical childhood.

Besides the family, we had a live-in maid named Liza, and a gruff but adorable Canadian nanny whom we all called Nana. I never learned her real name. Mother’s physical health never fully recovered after her difficult last pregnancy, but that was when Nana joined the household. She pulled us all together.

Father’s time away always seemed to grow longer and longer, but he would shower us with presents whenever he came home. The entire attic of our home was converted into the nursery, which Father gradually filled with the most fantastical and wondrous of toys. I remember that for John’s eighth birthday he installed a miniature mechanic observatory in the attic, complete with a telescope, an astrolabe and other gadgets. He’d managed to get an extended leave of absence from work; and he and John spent hours and hours that summer, staring up into the night sky.

See that star, John? he would say: Second to the right, and then straight on till morning. Then Michael and I would join them, DM dragging that teddy-bear around that was his constant faithful companion. And then John would grab the top hat that he had acquired for his previous birthday; the one when he had turned seven, and had decided to embark on a career as a magician. Pirate, train driver, fossil hunter, magician, astronomer: every year there was a new profession for John to aspire to, and a new fantasy for Father to indulge with his most favoured child.

If only we knew it, that was the last happy summer we would have together as a family. Because all children, except one, grow up.

Work seemed to get even busier for Father in the next few months. The company was operating at the cutting edge of research into the human genome. Some amazing breakthroughs were beginning to be made. Not that we children knew any of this, of course. We didn’t even know that Father was a research scientist. We had been raised with the belief that George Darling, our father, was a bank clerk.

A bank clerk!

It seems ridiculous now that he didn’t come up with a better cover story. Even more ridiculous was the fact that for so long we didn’t question it. How could a mere bank clerk have ever afforded such a well-appointed home in the country? Inherited wealth, over-inquisitive neighbours were told. Nana knew something of the truth, I think; but she was far too loyal to her employer to ever discuss it, even with his children.

She probably knew more about Michael’s illness, and somewhat sooner, than she ever revealed to me or John. As far as we could tell, it began to manifest itself at the end of that last wonderful summer. An unusual lethargy, and a most uncharacteristic uncommunicativeness, overcame a child who had previously been abounding in energy. Father and Mother refused to discuss it with us older children when we began to ask questions about it. Unbeknown to us at the time, when all the more usual medical investigations yielded nothing, Father took Michael to his secret laboratory. But Michael’s condition grew steadily worse. By the time of my eleventh birthday, six months after the first symptoms had appeared, Michael had become entirely mute. On that day, Father took me and John to one side; and in terms simple enough for both of us to understand, he gravely explained what had been learned about Darling Michael’s condition.

Your brother has an extremely rare medical disorder. It’s a genetic disorder - you know what that means, don’t you? John and I were bright children: we both nodded. It’s a kind of ageing disorder, which means that all the cells, and all the organs, of his body are getting older: very rapidly. It hasn’t shown up in his outer appearance, yet. But it will, soon. His seventh birthday is just a few months away: but by the time he reaches it–if he reaches it… Father's voice cracked, but after a pause, he continued: He won’t look as if he’s seven. He’ll appear to be older than that. Much older. And it’s not his body that’s affected. It’s his mind too. That’s why he’s not speaking any more. That’s why he’s moving less and less. Because the synaptic pathways of his brain are breaking down. Sorry. What I mean is - we’re losing our Darling Michael, piece by piece. And there’s nothing that anyone can do about it.

Soon after that conversation, the very worst physical manifestations of this disease - the changes that our Father had alluded to - began to present themselves. (If you don’t mind, James, I’m not going to describe them in detail. If you’re really curious, you look it up for yourself online. It’s called Hook’s Syndrome.) We had one last birthday party for Michael the following May. My parents had a lift installed, at some considerable expense, just so we could enable the party to be held in the nursery: the heart of our home. Poor DM didn’t speak once. But right at the end, as we sang Happy Birthday to him, his face turned towards us - he was completely blind by now, we’d been told - and he smiled. And then I saw a single tear running down his cheek. For an instant, that wizened, ravaged face looked like the face of my Darling brother again. And I saw his grip tighten, just for a few seconds, as he held his beloved teddy-bear in his lap once again.

Then the moment passed. I felt I was looking at a complete stranger. It was as if the last remnant of my brother had bid adieu to us. His carer came, and wheeled him away in his wheelchair. The teddy-bear fell from his feeble grasp onto the floor of the nursery. And as the doors of the lift silently closed, the four of us - Father, Mother, John and I - clutched at each other, and began our deepest lacrimosa. I never saw my brother Michael again.

Six weeks later, on the evening before John’s ninth birthday, Nana came into the nursery and broke the long-dreaded news to John and myself that Michael had passed away at three o’clock that afternoon. Early the next morning, before sunrise, John took Michael’s teddy-bear, and his own prized top hat, and carried them to the lagoon in the Neverwood. As I watched, he doused them in petrol from a can he’d hidden away in the Home Under the Ground. I didn’t know where he’d gotten it from. He stuffed the teddy into the hat, and set them adrift on the lagoon, amongst the water lilies that were now in full flower once again; then he lit a rag, and with unerring aim tossed it onto the gently bobbing hat.

A Viking funeral, I said.

John nodded. His latest fascination was with the myths and sagas of the mediaeval Norse. Farewell to childhood, he said. When the gods prepared the funeral boat for dead Balder, his wife Nanna died of a broken heart; so they threw her body onto the burning boat beside him. Perhaps we should do that to our Nana too.

John! I was shocked. How can you say that? Poor Nana.

If it would bring Michael back, I’d do it, said John savagely. But it won’t, will it?

No, replied the voice of Father, who appeared suddenly and soundlessly out of the shadows behind us. Together the three watched the burning remnants of beloved childhood memories. Nothing will, he continued. But our Lost Boy’s death won’t be in vain. By all the gods - I swear it won’t!

I knew that my father didn’t believe in God - or gods - so it was strange to hear him make such an impassioned vow. But there was steel, and anger, in his voice as he said it. I had no doubt he meant it. Whatever it was…

That night, I received my own personal indication that childhood had ended. I had my first period.

The days that followed Michael’s death–well, it was as if we were in a deep fog. John refused to speak to Nana. Perhaps it was because she was the one who had broken the news of Michael’s death to us, that evening in the nursery. He made her the scapegoat for all his pent up rage. Father quietly dismissed her. One morning we awoke, to find that she had left. Gone home to Newfoundland, was all Father would say.

The funeral service didn’t take place for many weeks. John and I didn’t know at the time, but later we learnt that Father was carrying out all manner of experiments and tests on our brother’s cadaver; so desperate was he to learn more about the mechanics of Hook’s Syndrome. It was only after Mother had made repeated impassioned pleas to him - to let her bury her beloved DM - that Father finally gave the go ahead for the funeral. The unnatural delay was much commented upon in the community where we lived; and I have no doubt that it unbalanced Mother’s mind further, and contributed to what was to come.

My Mother insisted on a religious funeral. My Father’s only faith, of course, lay in science. I remember him at the church service, sitting motionless throughout and steadfastly refusing to join in the hymns or prayers; refusing, even, to shake the hand of the poor young curate who was officiating. I later discovered that this funeral of a seven-year-old boy was his very first.

The day after the funeral, Father left home, returning to his work as a ‘bank clerk’. Neverland seemed more deserted now than ever. No Michael, no Nana, no Father. Liza gave in her notice too. I found myself doing most of the housework, and even attempted a little gardening, before giving up. It was all too much for an eleven-year-old to manage adequately by herself. Mother slowly slid into a deep depression, sometimes not leaving her room for days on end. John wasn’t much help either; sleeping throughout the day, then staying awake all night, alternately reading dark tales of Ragnarok and the Twilight of the Gods, or staring out into the velvet expanse of space with his telescope.

Once a week, I would visit the churchyard and place fresh flowers on little DM’s grave. The epitaph Give me the child until he is seven, and I will show you the man - a quote from Aristotle - was inscribed on his gravestone. Father’s choice of words, I presumed: but I dared not ask Mother.

A little over five months after Michael’s death, Father, John and myself stood at his graveside together once again. This time we had gathered for the funeral of our mother, Mary Darling. She had hung herself from our favourite oak tree in the Neverwood, on the day after her thirteenth wedding anniversary. Father hadn’t deigned to return home for the anniversary. It had taken his wife’s shocking death to drag him away from his precious scientific research.

The afternoon following Mother’s funeral, Father sat down with John and myself, and finally revealed to us that he was not a bank clerk. I wasn’t all that surprised. I’d had my suspicions for some while that we couldn’t really have had such a comfortable upbringing, nor could Father have been absent from home for so much of the time, if that had truly been his profession. Since Michael’s death, John and I had even speculated that Father might be a spy. One of the few things to excite John, just a little, during those dismal months was the prospect of Father turning out to be a real-life James Bond. The truth was a little more disappointing.

No, John, Father had laughed. Then, as if thinking of his wife, our mother, laid to rest only that morning, he grew more solemn again. I’m not a secret agent. Though my work is highly confidential. The Company I work for has commercial rivals, and it wouldn’t do for details of my work to leak out. But I think you are both old enough - and sensible enough - for me to tell you a little about what I do. Especially as I’ve come to think of it as our family legacy.

I asked him what he meant by that. He paused for a moment, then continued. You know that I have no religious faith myself. I’ve never pretended otherwise. It was the one great difference between myself and your Mother. She blamed God, I think, for taking away our DM. I couldn’t understand that, I’m afraid. It was beyond my comprehension that she should feel that way. So I wasn’t there for her, when she needed me. I could offer her no consolation. And so, really, I blame myself for her death. Not God. There is no God. He looked at us intently, as if daring us to challenge his impiety. Or do you think otherwise?

John said he didn’t believe in God either. I said I wasn’t sure. Father nodded. Well, if you don’t believe in God - if you really think that this life is all the life that is, or that ever can be - then that should affect how you choose to live your life. You should want to make the very best choices in that life. The one life, the only life, you will have. Carpe diem.’ He could see we were both puzzled. That’s a Latin phrase. It’s about the only thing priests and scientists have in common, you know - using technical words and phrases derived from dead languages. It means ‘Seize the day.’ Make a difference. Well, Wendy, John: I intend to do just that. I’m a research scientist. For years, I’ve been studying what’s called the human genome. Think of it as a map. A great big treasure map to…to Neverland. The Neverland we thought we’d never reach. That maybe now - thanks to your brother - we may reach. One day.

John told Father - bluntly - that he didn’t understand what on earth he meant. I thought that maybe I might, so I said: You mean, you think you can learn from Michael’s death? By studying what happened to him, you can help others who get sick like him too? Maybe even cure them? Is that what you mean, Father?

There was a curious gleam in my Father’s eye. Oh, more than that Wendy: much more. Your brother’s medical condition - Hook’s Syndrome - I think it holds the key. The genetic disorder accelerates cellular growth. But I think we can find a way not just to stop it - but to reverse it. And if we can do that: then we can reverse the normal ageing process itself. You understand what that means? Don’t you see? My Father’s voice had become more fervent as he continued to speak. John and I exchanged glances with one other, suddenly afraid. This didn’t sound like the calm, reserved man whom we looked to as the firm anchor of our family. Don’t you see? he repeated. It means defeating the Last Enemy - Death himself!

Interlude

I paused for a moment, and shuddered involuntarily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I could have some water before I continue?’

James nodded. ‘Of course.’ He laid aside his notebook and pencil, and jumped up from his chair. Moving far more quickly than I had expected, he crossed the room to the counter, and asked: ‘Could we have a glass of water? Quickly, please. My companion is feeling a little faint.’

A few moments later he was back, and I gratefully took the glass from his hand. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. It’s harder telling this story than I thought it would be.’ I sipped the water, and slowly regained my composure. ‘We haven’t reached the really horrid stuff yet.’

‘Take your time,’ said James. ‘I know this is very difficult for you, but you did the right thing contacting me. The truth about this business has to be told.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We can’t have any more Lost Boys. Poor Peter!’

‘You haven’t spoken of him as yet,’ noted James, cautiously. ‘But he’s the ultimate reason why you came to me, isn’t he?’

‘Of course. That dear, exuberant, reckless boy! “Proud and insolent youth.” That’s how Father described him. And as for what Peter Pan said back about my father: well, we’ll come to that. All in good time. Let’s continue from where I left off…’

Chapter Two: ‘I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things’

Father talked quite a bit more that afternoon, and long into the evening. John and I didn’t understand half of it. It seemed to both of us that our surviving parent was quite mad, unbalanced by Mother’s death just as she had been by Michael’s. His mania was in absolute contrast to her melancholia; but no less disturbing. We hardly slept that night, clinging to each other, certain that we would soon lose our father as assuredly as we had lost Mother.

The next morning, we were astonished to find Father restored to his usual rational self. He apologised for his ‘hasty words’ the day before. We were to think no further of them, he said. Grief had temporarily overpowered him. When pressed, he admitted that he was a scientist; that part of his fantastical story had been true. But as for the rest, it was nonsense. I was no more convinced by his sudden denials than by his disturbed ravings the previous day. But he was adamant that he didn’t want to speak any more on the matter. One thing was clear to him though. The time had come for both of us to go to boarding school.

My brother and I both protested against this - I don’t want to go to boarding school and learn solemn things! John had cried - especially when we realised Father’s intention was for us to attend different schools; but he remained obdurate. There was no question of him changing his mind.

It’s almost Christmas now, so there’s no point in going back to your old schools. We will spend these holidays together, here at Neverland. But come the New Year, you’ll depart for your new schools. And that is the end of the matter.

And so it was. It was the most wretched Yuletide imaginable, the three of us together, brooding on the events of the past year, as we ate our evening meals together in silence in the gloomy candle-lit dining room. Liza was enticed back, just for a few weeks, and quickly made amends for my deficiencies in the housework department. I wished we could have had Nana back too; but I knew that was never going to happen. At least Neverland was clean and tidy enough for that last Christmas. But it was too late to put right the best part of a year-long neglect of the garden. The frightful weather that winter also put paid to any planned visits my brother and I might have made to the lagoon and the oak tree in the Neverwood.

Christmas Day itself arrived. John and I had decided that if Father could disavow God, then we certainly were no longer beholden to believe in Santa Claus, or elves, or fairies. Every time a child stops believing, a fairy dies, Nana had told us repeatedly in the nursery, in happier times. But we no longer heeded her words. And there were no stockings and no presents that year, fully vindicating our unbelief. Though I do recall that there was a rather splendid turkey. Father made sure that we weren’t starved that Christmas. Except, of course, of the one thing we needed most. His affection.

No sooner had Twelfth Night passed, than John and I found ourselves packing our suitcases for the dreaded journeys to our respective new schools. I placed a poinsettia plant on the grave of my mother Mary and brother Michael. That evening, John and I laughed and hugged and cried on our last night in bed together in the nursery, remembering DM, and his teddy-bear, and John’s magic tricks with his top hat, and Nana and her stories, and the scent of Mother’s roses, and the nights with Father looking up into the skies, and that final birthday tea with the five of us all together. We shed tears as we remembered, but we also reassured each other that it wouldn’t be so very long before the Easter holidays, and our homecoming to Neverland, and the nursery.

But the day after we departed, the ‘For Sale’ sign was hammered into the ground near the entrance to our front garden. By the time Easter came, the country house that had been our home for almost the whole of our childhood had been sold. In its place, Father had acquired a new home for our reduced family, back in London. John and I never returned to Neverland.

The years went by. Father, John, and I saw little of each other, even during the holidays. I hated our new London home, even if it was along the fashionable and expensive Bayswater Road.

There’s no garden, I cried to Father.

Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve 265 acres of garden right opposite, was his reply.

So I spent most of my vacations with the families of school friends. They readily took pity on the poor young girl who had lost a brother and mother at a tender age, and whose thoughtless father was clearly too busy with his career to give much attention to his daughter. John, by contrast, always came home in the holidays; but he hid himself away in the attic, playing Strauss and Wagner at full volume, avoiding Father as much as possible on his own brief visits home. Whilst at boarding school, John developed an aptitude in mathematics and computing, and during his vacations gradually filled his attic room with all manner of electronic and computing equipment. When he turned sixteen, on one of our extremely rare teenage reunions, I asked him what he wanted to be when he’d grown up. A computer hacker, he replied. What about you?

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I could never be what I had wanted to be, most of all. A mother. That had been made clear to me by Mother, during one of her rare lucid moments following Michael’s death. It’s genetic, this disease, your father says. It only affects boys. But girls can carry it. And if you’re a carrier, there’s a fifty percent chance that any boy babies you have will develop the condition themselves. That’s what happened to me, with my boys. John dodged the bullet: Michael didn’t.

Sure, I might have had a baby girl. I might have had a boy baby who didn’t develop Hook’s Syndrome. And my father might uncover the breakthrough he was searching for. But I didn’t want to take my chances with any of these imponderables.

There was always the possibility of adopting. Perhaps I could find some ‘Lost Boys’, children without parents of their own, to care for. Perhaps. But that was for the future.

Or so I thought.

The year John told me of his ambition to become a hacker was the one in which I turned eighteen. I won a place to study English at Imperial College, London. It wasn’t too far from our London home; and much as I disliked the place, I thought it would make sense to live there whilst I was at Imperial. Father didn’t object: and John could hardly do so. He was now a day pupil at a school in Kensington, studying for his ‘A’ levels, and living at our Bayswater Road home full time. I decided I would live in the basement, so as not to disturb my unsociable brother.

One evening, three weeks into my first term at Imperial, I happened to be walking through Kensington Gardens following a late lecture, following my usual route home. As I passed by the Long Water, I noticed a young boy curled up in a foetal position under a nearby sweet chestnut tree. Alas, one of our glorious capital city’s unnumbered waifs and strays, I thought to myself. I guessed him to be about twelve years old.

As I looked at him, he seemed to shake himself vigorously, as if awakening from a deep slumber. He yawned and stretched; and as he did so, the cloak of leaves that had been covering him, and had given him - I ventured - a modicum of insulation on this chilly autumnal evening, was shaken off. Now that I could see him more clearly, it was apparent that he was a lovely boy. The yellow and brown fallen leaves seemed to glisten in the last ensanguined light of the setting sun, and it came to my mind that it was almost as if he was clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees. His mischievous eyes met mine. There was something gay and innocent and heartless in that gaze.

Hello, he said. My name’s Peter. What’s yours?

Wendy. What are you doing here?

He smiled the clearest, brightest, most perfect smile. It was entrancing; almost as if he still possessed his first teeth. But I knew he was too old for that. I live here, he replied.

These are my gardens. Where do you live?

Nearby. Where is your family? Your parents?

He shrugged. I dunno. I don’t have any. I could come and stay with you, if you like.

I laughed. It was such a bold, spirited thing to say. And I could hardly believe it–But I said Yes.

So that’s how Peter came to stay with me. And I became, I suppose, his surrogate mother.

Interlude

I took another sip of water, and paused again. Thinking about Peter was difficult. I was drawing near to the most painful part of my tale.

‘Do you want to carry on, Wendy?’ my interviewer gently inquired. ‘We can always meet up again in a day or two, if that’s easier for you.’

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No. If I stop now, then I’ll never get it all out.’

‘So,’ said James. His bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Surrogate mother? Is that really the kind of relationship you had with Peter?’

I laughed. ‘I’m not in the habit of seducing boys who haven’t yet hit adolescence. I wasn’t back then, either.’

‘But how long did he stay with you?’

‘I’ll tell you. Just give me a moment. This is going to be the hardest part of the story…’

Chapter Three: ‘To die will be an awfully big adventure’

Peter was filthy. It took an extremely long bath before he was remotely presentable. As usual, Father wasn’t at home; and John shrugged his shoulders with indifference when I introduced him to the young boy, and went back upstairs to listen to Das Rheingold. Whilst he was bathing, I managed to persuade Maimie, a college friend who lived nearby - and who had a younger brother around Peter’s age - to pop some clothes around. I told her they were for a visiting cousin who had arrived unexpectedly, travelling light. You know boys, I told her. No idea how to pack properly. I don’t think Maimie entirely believed me; but she knew better than to ask awkward questions. The torn rags that my new charge had been wearing when I’d first met him I threw out. That turned out to be a mistake; Peter had a screaming fit when he realised later that evening what I’d done.

I’m not wearing those, he said sulkily, pointing to the clothes my friend had brought round. He looked ridiculous standing there in the bedroom I’d set aside for him, wearing an oversized dressing-gown I’d purloined from John. Then he spotted a green cap with a red feather that had once belonged to Michael. It was one of the few things of my brother’s that I’d kept. I don’t know how it happened to be lying on a shelf in the spare bedroom. Before I could say anything, Peter picked it up and popped it on his head. Can I have this? he asked.

I was outraged, and I was going to say No. Of course I was. I opened my mouth, but somehow the words froze in my throat. The green cap, most surprisingly, seemed to fit him. And it certainly suited him. He looked at me, with those pleading eyes of his.

Please, Wendy. Please say yes!

A thought occurred to me. Yes, you can, Peter. But on one condition…

Ten minutes later, he was properly dressed. My friend’s brother’s clothes weren’t an exact match, but they’d do for now. Unlike DM’s cap; that could have been made for Peter.

Peter Pan.

I was the one who gave him that moniker. I told him he ought to have a family name, and as he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - tell me anything about where he had come from, we’d have to come up with something suitable, at least for now.

Why can’t I have your family name? Aren’t you going to be my mother?

I shook my head.

No, my darling boy. He giggled. That wouldn’t be right. What about… An image of the Greek god Bacchus, playing the pan pipes, popped into my head. Yes, that certainly befitted him.

So ‘Peter Pan’ it was. He seemed to like it.

In the days that followed, I took Peter shopping along Kensington High Street and fitted him out with more suitable clothes. I gently quizzed him about where he had come from, but he resolutely refused to talk about it. It was clear that there was some horrific experience from his previous life that continued to haunt him. And, just occasionally, I would find him in his bed, tossing and turning, and moaning in his sleep. During one of these night terrors, I happened to overhear him muttering some words under his breath. Something told me that he was subconsciously reliving one of the troubling events of his past.

No, please. No, Tink. No more fairy dust. Can’t I just sleep? Please? No, I need my shadow. Please don’t unpick it! No…not the dark and sinister man. Not him.

I went over to his bed, bent down, and stroked his fevered brow. I took care not to wake him; but the soothing action, and my voice - whispering Hush, Peter, hush - seemed enough to calm him. He shuddered one last time, then subsided, his breathing becoming more regular and gentle. The nightmare had passed.

By now I realised that I was out of my depth, and that I should contact the police, or social services. But Peter had already anticipated this. He threatened that he would run away if I told anyone about his whereabouts.

But I’ve already told my brother John.

Yes, but he hardly ever leaves his attic. He’s not going to tell anyone about me. But others might. Promise me, Wendy - or the first chance I get, I’m out of here!

So I gave him my promise.

Weeks went by, but it felt like we were living in a dream. The house was full of excited young laughter, something I hadn’t really heard since living at Neverland. If Peter wasn’t good at answering questions, he was certainly full of them himself. Bit by bit, I found myself opening up to him, talking to him about my Hertfordshire childhood. I didn’t go into the details of Michael’s death; how could I, with a child so young and innocent? It was enough simply to say that he’d become sick, and then died.

That’s sad - for you, I mean. And for everyone Michael left behind. But sometimes I think that to die would be an awfully big adventure.

I thought about the cruel way in which Michael had been taken from us. There had been nothing heroic or adventurous in that. But I couldn’t say that to this sweet child. Instead I said: I think that to live would be an awfully big adventure, Peter. Let’s try that for a while, shall we?

He giggled, and hugged me. I wish you could teach me to fly, he said. But if you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing. So I did.

I told him all about our adventures in the Neverwood. I talked to him about my Mother, and her love for her garden, and that sadly she too had passed away; and I spoke about Father, and all the wonderful toys that he had provided for us.

Why does your father not live here with you and John? Peter asked one morning.

Well, he does. But he works away most of the time.

What does he do?

Why– I hesitated for a moment. Some inner voice seemed to caution me not to tell the boy the truth. Then inspiration struck. He’s a bank clerk, Peter. A very senior one. He works in the City. Perhaps you’ll get to meet him one day. Oh look! Any distraction was welcome, to change the subject. The post has come. Peter, would you mind getting it for me?

It was a letter from Imperial. I hadn’t been to any of my lectures for well over a month now, ever since finding Peter. Well, how could I? Wasn’t I a full-time carer now? And, if I was honest with myself, I was enjoying ‘mothering’ far more than attending seminars and tutorials on Austen or Coleridge or Milton. I put the envelope to one side.

Aren’t you going to open it, Wendy?

Not now. Later, perhaps. Look, it’s a fine day. Why don’t we go for a walk in your gardens?

Maybe I could build you a house, he said, and rubbed his little snub nose against mine.

And then I’ll sing:

’I’ve built the little walls and roof

And made a lovely door,

So tell me, mother Wendy,

What are you wanting more?’

Another two weeks passed. It was December now, and Christmas was coming. Peter loved going down Oxford Street and seeing the festive lights. I was determined to make his first Christmas with me a special one. I did wonder, though, what would happen if Father came home unexpectedly. How would I explain Peter’s presence? I’d thought through lots of different explanations in my head, only to reject them.

Well, I might as well tell Father that he’s a Lost Boy who fell out of his pram when his nurse was looking the other way, and who has been living in Kensington Gardens ever since, I told myself one day, out loud. For all I know, that might even be the truth…

Then one morning, I was awoken by shrill cries, coming from the hallway above. It was Peter. I rushed up the short flight of stairs from my basement bedroom, barefoot, wearing just my nightgown. The sight that greeted me when I got to the hallway: I’ll never forget it. Huddled in the corner, knees bent, bawling his head off, was Peter. He was plainly terrified, hiding his face in his folded arms as best as he could from the tall figure standing over him. My father. George Darling.

At least, it looked like my father. But the terrible thunderous expression on his face was like nothing I had ever seen before.

And then I knew. This was the dark and sinister man of Peter’s nightmare.

Get up, you proud and insolent youth. Get up! The venom of the words that Father spat out of his mouth was powerful enough to soak into my soul, every bit as much as Peter’s.

Peter shook his head vigorously from side to side. No. I won’t! I won’t come back with you. I won’t! Then he opened his eyes, and staring past my father, he saw me standing in the doorway, looking on, horrified.

Wendy!

Interlude

The tears were flowing freely down my face. I couldn’t go on. I was gasping for air.

Looking deeply concerned, James had laid aside his notebook, and was holding my hands. ‘It’s okay, Wendy.’ No response. ‘Wendy–Miss Darling? We really can continue this another time, you know.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. I pulled a tissue from my pocket, and blew my nose vigorously. ‘God, I must look like such a mess. I should have known that mascara would have been a bad idea today.’ I sniffled. ‘Okay. I’m not going to talk any more about THAT day. Let’s skip forward a couple of days. To when Father unlocked my bedroom door, and let me out of my room, and told me about Peter. And just why he was so important to him.’

Chapter Four: ‘Time is chasing after all of us’

I didn’t want to believe whatever it was Father would tell me, of course. I was sure that it would be a very partial and partisan version of events. But there would also be some semblance of truth in it, I guessed, as far as it went.

Father told me that Hook’s Syndrome was so rare that it had taken him, and the rest of his team, several years to find a sufficient number of test subjects. The principal problem was that they had to be young. Once puberty had kicked in, they’d be useless. Naturally, that posed significant ethical challenges. So the Company had soon come to the conclusion that the best candidates had to be sourced by scouring the country’s diminishing number of readily accessible children’s homes; and, in the last resort, the byways and highways of our larger cities. The best pickings, of course, had been found here in London.

Put simply, we had to have Lost Boys, said Father. Always boys. Girls are far too clever to fall out of their prams… I gasped. Yes, Wendy. The house has been bugged. And you see, girls would never respond to the serums we’ve been working on at the Tinkerbell Project. But members of the fair sex have other uses within our project. All Lost Boys need their mothers, after all.

The Tinkerbell Project? I shuddered, remembering Peter’s dream. Of how he had spoken of ‘Tink’.

Yes. Not my name for it, I assure you. We’re tinkering with the human genetic code to an extent we’ve never been able to do before: on an exciting but, for some, challenging new scale. Playing God, some might say. The risks are high, but the rewards… Father shrugged. If we succeed, then the bells really will ring out in celebration. So–Tinkerbell.

Wait. You said the house has been bugged? And that all Lost Boys need their mothers? Like Peter - and me? Was this a set up from the start?

Of course. Tootles, Nibs, Slightly, Curly, the Twins - their code-names, of course - those Lost Boys were all promising subjects. But none more so than Peter. We found him five years ago, wandering in Kensington Gardens. Not far from the spot I first met your mother, long ago. A doubly-fortuitous coincidence, also being so close to our new Darling family home. He was seven then - the perfect age, of course, as asserted by Aristotle. You remember your brother’s gravestone? I nodded. Peter has helped us tremendously. We’re so very close now, Wendy, to arresting the ageing process. We can do it for Peter, I’m certain of it. Unpicking the Shadow, we call it. Again, I thought of Peter’s dream, but said nothing. Father smiled a thin humourless smile. That particular poetic turn of phrase is mine. You know the story of Plato’s Cave? The shadows on the wall that, in the fable, are the effects of an unseen reality. Used by some theists as a facile defence for their belief in God. Well, the Tinkerbell Project is all about Unpicking the Shadow. Breaking the link between life and death, the transient and the enduring. And, in so doing, finally dispelling the need for God.

So Peter need never grow old? Is that what you’re saying, Father? The implications of what my father was saying were mind-blowing: and terrifying.

Yes! Remember that conversation we had; why, seven years ago now, virtually to the day? On the day we laid your mother to rest? You thought me mad, that day, I think. But THIS is what I’ve been working towards these past seven years. The physical aspect of manipulating the genetic code, in just the right way, I’m confident, we’ve almost mastered. Truly, the dawn of the Übermensch: Nietzsche’s ‘Superman’. But the emotional and mental obstacles - if anything, those have been more difficult to overcome. In short, if we’re going to arrest Peter’s maturation, then we need deep-seated psychotherapy. And he will need what we’ve been unable to provide for him these past five years: a mother-figure.

You mean–?

Yes, Wendy. I mean you. That’s why we returned Peter to Kensington Gardens. Most of his early memories we’ve obliterated with psychotropic drugs, but certainly trace memories - such as the gardens being a home, a playground, a place of sanctuary - these have remained, and proved useful. We arranged for him to find you. We knew, from our experiments, how adept the Lost Boys are at emotional manipulation. And I knew you, of course: my own daughter. We’ve monitored everything, Wendy.

How did you manage to do all that?

Father chuckled. Having a mathematical genius for a son, someone with superlative talents in the fields of electronics and computing, has had its advantages. John’s been part of the Tinkerbell Project for the past eighteen months now. Why do you think he spends so much time in his attic? It's only a small part of what he does for us - but ever since you returned home, and began studying at Imperial, he’s been indulging in some rather detailed home surveillance. Isn’t that so, son? His eyes had turned away from my astonished face, and were now firmly fixed on John - my brother - who was leaning composedly against the doorframe of our lounge. Come and take a seat. I’m just filling Wendy in, so that she too can make her choice.

My brother coolly sat down opposite me, smirking, clearly enjoying my discomfiture. You snake, John, I hissed. How could you betray me like this? He shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. I turned back to Father. What do you mean? What choice?

It’s very simple. Peter’s now firmly back where he belongs. But you can help him. We’ve been recruiting surrogate mothers for our Lost Boys. Finding one for Peter has proved particularly difficult. But as he’s by far our most promising subject, it’s imperative we find one for him. Urgently. I think we’ve succeeded. Will you join the Project, Wendy?

I didn’t know what to say. I sat there, in silence, staring at the floor, listening to the traffic thundering by on the busy Bayswater Road outside, trying - and failing - to take it all in.

Father played what he believed to be his ace card. If not for John - if not for me - will you do it for Michael? That his death might not be in vain?

Finally, I looked up at my father, wondering what had happened to the man I had once loved. Peter was right. There was something dark and sinister about him. John’s death had twisted him. Perhaps Mother had been the first to recognise it, when for weeks he had denied her the right to bury her son, while he carried out goodness knows what abominable experiments upon his body. Experiments that doubtless wouldn’t have been out of place in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I remembered the words spoken by the Monster:

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.

I looked into my Father’s cold expressionless eyes; and I imagined that such words could easily have tumbled from his mouth.

There was only one answer that I could give to him. But I also knew I had to buy myself some time.

Could I think about it for a few days, at least?

Father stiffened. I could tell my response displeased him. You can have until tomorrow morning. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. There goes the croc. I have to go: there’s some delicate work that needs my direct supervision. I really can’t leave it to Smee. Here’s the deal: you can’t leave the house until I return tomorrow. No phone calls, no emails, no texts, no social media. John will keep an eye on all that. I’ll be back for your answer at nine o’clock tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me, Wendy.

As soon as he’d gone, I turned to John.

Why?

You called me a snake, Wendy. Perhaps I am. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, yeah?

I shook my head. Paradise Lost. I thought I was the literary member of the family. That sentiment isn’t yours, John. Live up to your brother’s name. Be like the angel who champions truth and justice, not the fallen Lucifer. You know this is all wrong. Mother wouldn’t have wanted any of this. And you know what? Neither would Michael. He’d have been horrified at what Father is doing in his name.

John looked unsettled. I could tell my shaft had hit home. He stood up, and walked in silence across the lounge. As he reached the doorway, he turned around. For a moment I thought he was about to admit I was right. But instead, he muttered: I’m off to my room. Just remember what Father said.

It took me a long time to get off to sleep that night. I wondered whether I should play along, pretend to agree to Father’s plan. Maybe, once I was reunited with Peter, I would find a way for us both to escape; to fly away together, far beyond the Company’s reach. But I doubted that I could deceive my father. He’d know if I was lying. He’d know.

Eventually, I did manage to sleep. And I dreamt of Peter.

In my dream, we were flying together, with John, and Michael too. The three of us Darlings were children once again. We were all in our nightclothes. John was wearing his ridiculous top hat, and Michael was holding on to Peter with one hand, and his teddy-bear with another. Only Peter was unchanged. He was as I had last seen him, just a few days before; wearing Michael’s green cap with the red feather. In my dream, we were laughing and swooping down out of the sky. There was the lagoon of the Neverwood, and I could see that in the middle of it, a pirate ship lay at anchor: the Jolly Roger read the name painted on the side. As we drew closer, I could see the captain of the vessel. His eyes were the blue of a forget-me-not, and his hair had long dark curls resembling black candles. In place of his right hand there was an iron hook. There was a relentless tick-tock that grew louder as I approached, and I said out loud: Time is chasing after all of us. Then I realised, as I looked down at him, that I was staring into the face of my father. A cannonball went whizzing by, missing me by inches. I was falling out of the sky now towards the captain, falling, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop…

Peter! I cried out. I awoke, with a start. Daylight was streaming in through the lace curtains; I hadn’t closed the blinds properly the night before, and had left the window slightly ajar, as is expecting - hoping - that someone might fly by. A young boy wearing a green cap, perhaps. I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was half-past nine: well past the time Father was due to arrive to receive the answer to my ultimatum. I dressed hurriedly, still not knowing what exactly I was going to say to him.

I bounded upstairs to the hallway, my heart thumping loudly. There was no sign of either Father or Michael. The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I walked through to the lounge. Trembling, I picked up my phone, which I had left there the night before. I scrolled quickly through the texts and messages. There was one from Maimie Mannering, asking why I hadn’t been at lectures lately, and would I like to meet up for coffee. A few other messages from well-meaning friends. A text from my tutor at Imperial: a follow-up to their letter, no doubt. Nothing from my father.

Finally, there was a message from John with an attachment - a video. The accompanying message itself said simply:

WATCH THIS.

Interlude

‘We’re almost at the conclusion now, James. The video doesn’t exist anymore. But I can still remember exactly what John said in it. But before I tell you, I want a final reassurance from you, please.’

‘Of course. What exactly do you mean?’

‘I introduced myself to you as Miss Darling. Well, I’m actually married now. I have a husband, named Edward, and a seven-year-old daughter, Jane. We adopted her. I’m not going to tell you my husband’s surname. Edward knows something of what I’ve told you. Not all the details, but it was enough for him to encourage me to contact you. He once met your father, apparently. Knew how highly regarded he remains, years after his death. I’ve kept all this hidden for twelve years now. It’s long enough. The Company that my father worked for has gone, and his research has been destroyed; but there’s always a chance that someone might try to replicate it. I think the public has the right to know what happened to Peter and the other Lost Boys. But I need your solemn assurance, James, that you will protect your source. That you won’t come looking for me, or Edward, or Jane.’

James sighed, and rubbed his eyes. They were so deep-set that I could not tell the colour of them. ‘I come from a family that has always honoured the absolute integrity of the printed word. My great-grandfather was an illustrious children’s author, my grandfather a distinguished newspaper editor, my father an award-winning war correspondent in Korea and Vietnam. He, above all, risked life and limb many times, in pursuit of the truth. Compared to the three of them, I’m just a hack. But I have never betrayed a source, Wendy. Not in almost forty years of investigative journalism. And I’m not about to do so now. Does that satisfy you?’ I nodded my assent. So. What did your brother have to say? How does the story end?’

Chapter Five: ‘Oh, the cleverness of me!’

I want you to know, Wendy: you were right. Completely right. What our father and his associates were doing: it was utterly monstrous.

Well, it all came to an end last night. As soon as Father returned to the laboratory, I knew what he was planning to do. The final experiment, with Peter. Unpicking the Shadow. Severing the Connection. The last piece in the new genetic code: the Petrine Code, he called it. The name Peter means ‘rock’: did you know that? Peter had been the toughest rock to crack. But at last, Father managed to do so last night. That’s what he was working towards - the Ultimate Sanction. He’d wanted you to be there, of course. Your refusal surprised him. The first time for him, in a long time, that things hadn’t gone completely according to plan. I think he knew, when he left, what your answer would be on his return.

They’d been preparing Peter for forty-eight hours solid, more or less from the moment they’d returned him to the lab. I won’t go into details. You wouldn’t want me to.

Anyway, something went wrong during the final phase. I’ve not been able to work out what happened exactly. The data’s too corrupted. But I think Father’s Übermensch became too much for him. He succeeded more than he could have imagined: and more than he could possibly control. There was an explosion, followed by a terrible fire. The entire facility was destroyed, together with everyone who was there at the time. The administrators, the researchers, the medical staff, the security. And the subjects themselves. The Lost Boys. All of them. Including Peter.

Wendy, I still don’t believe in God. I think you do, deep down. Will God die - just like fairies - if we renounce him? Maybe. Nietzsche said as much. Anyway, I suppose that means I don’t believe in the Judgement of God either. We brought this judgement upon ourselves. But it’s innocents like Peter who have paid the greatest price. I can’t entirely blame Father. But neither can I forgive him. Michael’s death consumed him. I think it consumed us all. Except, perhaps, you.

Anyway, I’ve been busy these past few hours, with my own Ultimate Sanction. It’s a computer virus, named ‘Crocodile’. Just one click of the button…

There. Done. Tick-tock. The mouse ran up the croc.

It’s being uploaded right now as I speak into the mainframe computer that’s the data hub for Project Tinkerbell. From there it will spread out to corrupt every file, every document, every little bit of computer code, everything associated with Father’s work. Just a sprinkling of virtual pixie dust. All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust, you know. The fire at the laboratory has destroyed the physical evidence. I’ve eliminated the rest. Götterdämmerung, Darling-style. Father was right. I am a computer genius. Oh, the cleverness of me!

But there might still be some agents left who worked for the Company. If so, I can’t imagine they’re going to be very happy with either of us. I’d get out, once you’ve opened this, just in case. Leave Bayswater Road behind, and leave behind the name of Darling. I’m getting out too: in my own way. Don’t follow me. Find a better way - a better way of living - than I ever could.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save Peter. If I’d acted sooner, if I’d really helped you, all the time he was here, as opposed to spying on you - maybe things would have turned out differently. At least, I think, it was quick at the end for him. He was happy with you, Wendy. Happier than he’d been for such a long time. Never forget that.

I’ve pulled off my best magic trick of all, without needing my old top hat. I think, at last, Michael would have approved of me. Maybe - if you’re right about God - he can yet tell me so. Mother too. Maybe Peter was onto something. Maybe death really is an awfully big adventure.

It’s three o’clock in the morning now, and I’m so damned tired. Time I slept. Goodnight, Friendy-Wendy. Remember what Father said, in better times: Second to the right, and then straight on till morning.

Interlude

James put his pencil down, and sat silent for an age. I looked at the clock on the wall of the cafe. Tick-tock: three o’clock, I thought to myself. How imperceptible the passage of time!

‘John took his own life, then?’ enquired the journalist at last.

‘Yes. Not quite Brünnhilde riding into Siegfried’s funeral pyre. Cyanide was my brother’s choice. He was long gone by the time I opened the video - as was his intent.’

‘Did you “clear out” of the Bayswater Road house?’

‘That very day. Cleared out, left it all behind. Except for this.’ I opened up my handbag. There wasn’t much inside it, except for one item that was of inestimable value to me. I pulled it out, and placed it on the table before me. It was somewhat battered, but James gasped as soon as he saw it. It was a green cap with a red feather. ‘I keep it, just in case Peter Pan has learnt to fly. Just in case one night, he flies back to me.’

‘Thank you,’ said the journalist. He stood up, opened his briefcase and slipped his notebook and pencil inside. ‘I have a meeting with my editor tomorrow morning. I’ll know then if he’s interested in the story. If not–’ he paused. ‘There are other publishers who have accepted copy from me before. I do have a reputation for reliability. As well - as I’ve already mentioned - for protecting my sources. Ring me tomorrow evening, if you like. I can let you know then how I’m getting on. This is an important story, Wendy. I promise - whatever it takes - we’ll get it out there.’

I stood up too, and shook hands with him. ‘Thank you, James. By the way, what does your middle initial stand for, if you don’t mind me asking? Is it Michael?’

He smiled. ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s Matthew. I don’t like it much.’

I laughed. ‘I’m saddled with two middle names, not one; and I don’t like either of them at all. Well, thank you James, Edward was certain that you were the right man for the story of Peter Pan. Now I’ve met you, I’m convinced of it too. I’ll be in touch.’

It was only after he’d walked out through the door of the cafe that I remembered I still had his recording device in my jacket pocket. I ran out of the door after him, calling out down the street. ‘James! Mr Barrie!’ But he was gone.

Puzzled at the speed with which he had vanished, I turned back towards the coffee shop, and swore under my breath. In my haste to catch up with the journalist, I’d neglected to pick up Michael’s - Peter’s - cap. I pushed open the door, and was distressed to see that the table and chairs where we had been sitting were empty, save for a menu card. There was no sign of the cap. I ran over and glanced down at the menu card. It looked different, somehow. The name of the cafe was printed on the top of the card.

Neverland Cafe.

Epilogue: ‘Never is an awfully long time’

‘Wendy! Wake up!’ The splash of water stung, but certainly served to awaken me from my slumber.

‘What–where am I?’

‘Gosh, sleepy-head, we’ve been trying to wake you for ages!’ The voice was that of a young boy, one that I seemed to recognise; and yet somehow I felt as if I hadn’t heard for a very long time. For many years, in fact. How could that be?

My eyes started to focus on the face of the child leaning over me. It was my brother John.

‘You always get cross with us if we sleep in,’ chimed another familiar voice. I sat up at once. There was light streaming in through a skylight above. I whirled around, confused. I seemed to be inside a small hut - no, it was more like a miniature house - and there were four sleeping bags strewn across the floor. I realised that my body from the waist down was inside one of them. The other three were lying empty.

‘Where am I?’ I asked a second time.

‘Goodness, Wendy, have you had a knock on the head?’ That was John speaking again. He looked to be about eight years old, with that slightly smug look on his face that always used to amuse and annoy me immensely in equal measure.

‘I was having the most peculiar dream,’ I said. ‘I was in a cafe that had the same name as our home, and there was an old man writing down–why, writing down what I was telling him, in a notebook. I was talking for ages and ages - but the clock on the wall, it kept saying the same time. Tick-tock. Always three o’clock. And Father was a pirate, and I found this ragamuffin boy sleeping in a park - it was all so very strange…’

Someone was poking me in the back. I turned around, and found my youngest brother, Michael, gigging in delight, clearly entertained by my confusion. He looked exactly as he had looked during that final summer, before he’d succumbed to that terrible disease. Sat on his lap was his favourite teddy-bear.

‘Well, you’re not in a cafe now. You're with us in your house, Wendy,’ said Michael. I realised that his voice was the second to have spoken to me following my awakening. ‘The one Father built for you–’

‘With the help of us boys, don’t forget,’ added John.

‘Forget? But I don’t remember it,’ I said. I thought for a moment. ‘The wild boy in my dream once promised to build me a house, though.’

John guffawed. ‘Whatever do you mean? You know full well that we've been sleeping out here in the Neverwood these past two nights, while Father finishes his mysterious birthday surprise for me. That’s why we’ve been banished from the nursery, remember? Oh you are a duffer, Wendy!’

‘One more night, and then John will be eight,’ said Michael. He threw a pillow at his older brother, but his aim was poor, and it missed John by a wide margin.

‘He’s finishing your observatory,’ I said, slowly. ‘Father’s most ambitious birthday present for you yet.’

‘What?!’ exclaimed John. ‘How do you know THAT?’

‘Oh, Wendy,’ said a new voice, ‘we were supposed to keep it a surprise. Fancy blurting that out.’ There standing in a doorway stood a figure that was hard for me to make out, as the bright morning sunlight shone in from without. But the voice was unmistakable.

‘Peter?’

‘Yes, silly,’ laughed the figure in the doorway. ‘Who else but your twin brother?’

‘My what?’ My hands clasped to my mouth. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. The figure reached up to its head. Next moment, a green cap with a red feather came whirling towards me and landed on my lap.

‘Peter has a far better aim than Michael,’ smirked John.

‘Boo,’ cried Michael and launched himself at John; then, with a whoop, the figure in the doorway leapt in too, and in an instant three boys were tussling with each other, indulging in the kind of mock play-fighting that only children who love one another dearly will ever resort to. In the confusion, they rolled onto me, and at last I could see that the third boy truly was Peter, just as I remembered. Actually, perhaps a couple of years younger than before. Younger and, if anything, wilder. And without the slightest hint of that troubled look I’d sometimes perceived in his eyes.

John’s head poked out from the tumble of arms and legs, and looked straight at me, suddenly anxious.

‘I say,’ he inquired, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve really hurt yourself, Wendy, have you? I mean - oh, what’s it called - when people can’t remember stuff?’

‘Amnesia,’ said Peter, quietly. ‘Wendy, Wendy.’ I looked up at him. ‘Just always be waiting for me, Wendy.’

I smiled back. ‘Peter, never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.’ I hugged him tightly. ‘But I promise, I’ll never forget you, or John, or Michael. Never!’ Puzzled, yet caught up in the sheer joy of the moment, my other two brothers joined in that wondrous embrace too.

One day, I realised, all children must learn to worry about grown up things. Even Peter Pan. But the nightmare had passed. We were young again; and we were happy. And I also knew, without a shadow of doubt, that many more adventures lay ahead for all four of us that summer, around the lagoon of our magical Neverwood.

Peter laughed, and rubbed his snub nose against mine.

‘Silly Wendy. Never is an awfully long time.’

Commentary:

I undoubtedly have a penchant for sorrowful endings. If I were a composer, I would probably end most of my compositions in a minor key. And my original intention, with this retelling of the tale of Peter Pan, was to end the story on a downbeat note.

The original plan was to end simply with the rather anticlimactic revelation that Wendy’s interviewer was JM Barrie - not that this wasn’t already obvious from the beginning of my tale, which is why I came up with a second plan - namely, to reveal that ‘Barrie’ wasn’t a investigative journalist at all, but rather a secret agent, perhaps working on behalf of the not-quite-so-defunct Company, and endeavouring to discover what Wendy really knew, before arranging for her to be quietly liquidated.

But as I was about to write that decidedly bleak conclusion, I had a change of heart. I remembered these words: ‘Come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!’ Then I knew what my ending should be. Additionally it just so happened I was writing this story during Easter Week. ‘They lived happily ever after’ suddenly seemed kind of mandatory. I hope you liked the final result.

This was a joyous Prose challenge to take part in, and I’m very grateful to Hunter for it. JM Barrie’s ‘Peter Pan and Wendy’ (first published in 1911) is a cracking read, and really is the definitive version of the story for me, even superseding Barrie’s stage play, which preceded it. The original Disney animated movie has its charms, and despite their various inadequacies, there are elements of interest in many of the other adaptations. I’ve enjoyed seeding plenty of quotations and allusions into my narrative: mainly from the 1911 novel, but a few from other sources too. I trust true Pan enthusiasts will have fun spotting them!

Dedication:

To Flyn & Marlowe, following the birth of Mahalia Kismet: ‘When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.’