Gizmo
He was given the name of Gizmo because of his fascination with remote controls: not that he wanted to use them in the way they were designed, rather he would take them apart and pocket only the minute items that held his interest.
From these scraps he constructed his own equipment; a dangerous act, and one that had caused great anger and outbreaks of violent lashes among those he had been placed with. This obsession with handsets was one that had eventually cost him his shelter by forcing him to flee.
The name on the files of the authority’s paperwork is Thomas Green. Nobody, except officials and magistrates, ever referred to him by that tag. He was known amongst the other street kids as Gizmo and that suited him well. He liked the way the nickname was forming his personality, it melded with his temperament; improving his self-worth: much like the stolen tiny electronic components had enhanced the performance of his homemade circuit board.
His arrival in Pickering was by accident. His destination was to be Scarborough where he planned to hide among the hoards of day-trippers, and engage in conversation with the nice old ladies who frequented the pavement cafe tables. Once warmed to his charms, they might offer to buy him an ice cream or a sticky bun. That was his idea. But when the wagon driver he’d hitched an unofficial lift from pulled in for fuel and caught sight of him crouching under the tarpaulin – alarm shot through Gizmo’s veins. A dangerous situation for the driver when he reached out his hand and grabbed the boy’s flimsy top. The zap was powerful enough to throw the giant of a man backwards hitting the ground with a resounding thud.
It was time to run.
It was always time to run. Nine years old and all Gizmo had done was flee from one situation to another.
Still, what did he care?
What did anyone care? He survived.
Darting between crowds of visitors and shoppers, he bumped into Molly, who was on her way to help in her favourite charity shop.
Contact with Gizmo under stress was always painful. His shocks were instinctive, out of his control. They were never fatal but they had power. This one left Molly feeling fazed like she’d been given a sharp surge of electricity. Before she could catch her breath, the scrawny little kid had darted across the road causing horns to blow and heads to turn.
An open door at the gable end of a row of holiday cottages gave Gizmo the opportunity to run to ground. Parked outside was a van with its back doors open. Rushing back and forth was a man loading bundles of laundry into the vehicle. The driver’s attention was fixed on the approaching traffic warden so he didn’t notice the little boy slide through the cottage door just seconds before he locked it and drove off.
Once inside, Gizmo found he was in the cleaner’s cubbyhole, where above the sink’s drainer was the hatch to the loft. He climbed up and inside, pulling the hatch closed. He was safe.
Once settled, he opened his Batman backpack and found the little parcel of food he had snatched that morning from the tables of a service station. He began to nibble the corners, eating all the icing first before devouring some of the cake. Below, he could hear people moving about in one of the houses – then, some time later the door to the street was closed with a bang. All fell silent. He let out a lungful of air.
Glad to be alone, he rewrapped his parcel of titbits, pulled out his sleeping bag and curled up. Within heartbeats he was sound asleep.
That evening, those who liked to watch sport were looking forward to the big match advertised to be shown by some of the pubs. The couple renting the cottage below had returned and, after opening and closing doors and running water they switched on their television set.
At that moment Gizmo woke up: fully charged.
Sat cross-legged on his sleeping bag, Gizmo gave another tweak to his circuit board. He felt the surge run through his little body, kinetic energy his peers said it was. Apparently he was full of it.
With a rub to his nose he concentrated his mind on a place at the end of the lofted roof space and waited for the vision of his beloved Nana to enter his memory. ‘This time,’ he whispered, almost pleading, ‘please make her clear.’
Further down the loft, the television aerial turned towards him and at that moment a memory of white curls and the smell of lavender flickered across Gizmo’s brain. ‘Yeah!’ he thrilled. At the same time an angry shout came from one of the cottages: swearing and banging until someone yelled for the man to calm down. Gizmo closed his eyes, swayed too and fro as the memory vanished and the aerial returned to its former position. Below him, the noises of rage abated.
It was always the same, people getting angry, shouting and threatening. With a stifled sob Gizmo prised the two tiny bits of wafer-thin metal apart and the fizz inside his head stopped. He put the de-activated circuit slab into his Batman rucksack, wiped the fat tears from his face and pulled his sleeping bag over his head.
The momentary fuzz on the screens caused a stir around the bars of town. Even those at home and not wishing to watch sport suffered a brief picture loss. It took Molly back to the early days of television where snowy screens were the norm, together with iffy vertical holds and weird greyish shadows.
The interruption to her program brought to mind the little boy who had stunned her with what she thought was static charge. She held her mug of tea to her lips and gave the surface a blow. Man-made fibres, she deduced, full of static. If she found him, she would dress him in proper materials. She made a mental note to look out for children’s wear made of cotton or wool.
Next day Molly found she was searching among the crowds, looking for the little boy who occupied her every thought. She even found herself visualising his size, checking donated clothes that might fit him and putting items aside.
Kath, her friend who also volunteered in the charity shop asked, ‘Is something bothering you Molly?’
‘No – not really Kath, it’s just that I keep thinking about that little lad I bumped into.’
‘The one that zapped you?’
Molly laughed, ‘Zapped? Bloody hell, it’s a long time since I was zapped.’
Kath laughed, ‘Aye. But back to the lad, you said he’s a youngster, and he’s not local.’
‘I don’t think he is. He has the look of a waif about him. Like he’s a runaway. Like he hasn’t got anyone to care for him.’
‘Come to think of it, there was a kiddie like that in the library yesterday. One minute he was sitting near the computers, next he’d gone. I knew he wasn’t from school, no uniform.’
‘It’s weird isn’t it. I mean if he’s a runaway, then someone should be looking for him.’
‘Perhaps he’s that genius our Kenny mentioned. The child they call Gizmo. Kenny says GCHQ have taken an interest. He said they protect gifted children and give them fancy equipment to play with.’
‘Honestly Kath, your Kenny watches too much television.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but Kenny says clever kids need to be nurtured, otherwise they could make mischief.’
‘My little waif’s not a mischief maker, he’s just skin and bone and needs a little bit of motherly love – and some warm clothes made from natural fibres.’
‘So what’s your plan?’
‘I never said I had a plan.’
‘I know you Molly Perkins, so come clean. Are we to feed him, clothe him or adopt him? Don’t answer that one, I’ve read your mind.’
‘First, we have to find him.’
Customers and non-customers take their electrical problems to Mark at Television House and Phil; the library volunteer, was no exception. Mark examined the remote control and, like a physician studying the results of a scan, gave a prognosis that did not delight.
‘You’ll have to send it back to the manufacturer. It’s been tampered with. See here – there’s a tiny chip been extracted from the temperature control.’
‘Extracted – Mark you sound like a dentist.’
Mark ignored Phil’s remark. ‘Why should someone take a chip from an air-conditioner?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Phil, ‘but now whenever I press that red button, the computers come on. It’s dead spooky the way they light up one after another. Then all fizz out.’
Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Apparently there was something spooky happened here, in town, last night. Everyone got an image of an old lady. I didn’t see her but for a short while she couldn’t be switched off.’
‘Phil produced his phone. Perhaps this will help. I took this photo with my mobile.’
Mark studied the close-up of a television screen. It showed a shadowy figure of an old lady. She appeared to have a halo of white curls. ‘Can I copy it? I might be able to enhance it, you know, clean it up a bit.’
‘Sure, do you think she’s connected to what’s going on?’
‘Who knows? Never a dull moment in this town, Kenny Gresham thinks GCHQ are sniffing around.’
‘Kenny Gresham reads too many fantasy books.’
The image on Mark’s computer became less fuzzy. As he zoomed in he thought perhaps the haloed lady was being filmed as she clapped her hands like she was addressing an unseen child. Her lips moved as though in song. Then something caught Mark’s eye – a television aerial in a loft. He reached for his phone and left a message with a trusted friend.
The moment Gizmo woke he knew it was time to flee again. He rolled up his sleeping bag, stuffed it into his backpack and navigated his way across the rafters. At the loft’s hatch he listened before raising it and sliding onto the draining board. Stealth was his friend and the ability to open locked doors was another boon. Kinetic energy had been his downfall: but it brought live memories of Nana, so that made it all worthwhile.
He avoided being spotted by joining a group of foreign school children heading towards the railway station. Once there, he crossed the footbridge and mingled with passengers alighting a train and heading towards the town’s centre.
Gizmo could feel the authorities closing in. He needed to find another truck where he could climb aboard unnoticed. Not easy. By now they would have traced him to this town. They would be watching places like the petrol stations and transport cafes. He began to feel trapped. When he felt trapped power surged through his veins.
Gizmo dodged the policeman by sliding down a grassy bank that ran alongside the beck. From its cover he watched the officer approach another man who had a van parked outside the holiday cottages where he’d slept.
Two more men emerged from the side door and approached the policeman. Gizmo put his bag to his ear. One of the men got into the van and it drove off. The other remained with the uniformed officer.
‘He’s an orphan from Manchester,’ the suited man said, ‘but has fled from care numerous times. Nobody can hold onto him. He interferes with electrical equipment. That makes folk riled and anger frightens him so he runs.’
The policeman let out a long sigh. ‘With respect Sir William, what do you expect? He’s nine years old.’
‘Yes I know. It’s a sad affair but if it’s any consolation, he’s not alone. We have to catch him before someone hurts him. There is a school, a place for gifted children like him, he will be well cared for and in an environment where he can thrive.’
‘You make it sound like he’s a special animal born only for your office to monitor.’
‘I know, but he is special. Like I said he’s not alone. We have a little girl who can lift a chair in the air and hurl it through a glass window just by using her mind. She can also decipher irregularities in white noise. She is very happy in our care.’
‘And is she like our little chap here, a loner?’
‘No, she has parents who visit. They can’t touch her, she lets off shocks.’
The officer let out another lungful of air. ‘This is a small town. Folk here mind their own business but they won’t stand by and see a little boy caged like a laboratory rat.’
From his hiding place, Gizmo heard the policeman’s words but what interested him most was the news that there were other children like him.
That thought cooled the circuit board hidden inside his bag bringing deep calm inside him – a rarity for Gizmo.
A gleaming limousine pulled up in front of the two men. Gizmo slid his arms through the straps of his Batman bag and walked across to meet them.
‘Is it true there are kids like me?’
‘Yes,’ looking towards Gizmo, ‘we have three, a nine year old and two aged ten.’
‘Then I’ll come.’
‘Now hang on here,’ the police officer knelt to the boy’s height, ‘how did you know about the other children?’
‘That’s easy; it’s my gadget. It does what I ask.’ Gizmo looked into the officer’s eyes, ‘I’m trying to make it remember my Nana. She died when I was three, I can’t get her face right.’
The officer reached inside his uniform and brought out the printed photo from Mark’s computer. ‘Did she look like this lady?’
Gizmo stared at the image, tears welling; a nod was all he could muster. Still kneeling, the policeman handed over the picture and whispered, ‘And you think you will be happy with Sir William?’
‘Don’t know, but being with kids who can’t fit in the world s’got to be better than being shouted at. Where did you get Nana’s picture?’
‘The man who sent me a message, he thought she was being held captive in the loft of these cottages.’
‘She’s inside my head.’
‘I believe you. My number’s on the back and I’m going to visit you – see you’re not being treated like a boffin.’
‘It don’t bother me to be like a boffin, better than shouted at.’ He turned towards the car as the driver opened the rear door. ‘I want to be treated like the Gizmo I’ve become. I want to stop running and I want to have friends.’ Clutching the photo he gave the officer a farewell nod, ‘I’m sorry I stung that woman in the street. Will you tell her? She’s got purple hair.’
‘Ah, that’ll be Molly. I’ll tell her. Might even bring her to visit you if that’s alright.’
Gizmo nodded. ‘And thank the man for printing Nana’s photo.’
‘I will.’
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
“Gizmo” is a captivating tale about a nine-year-old boy with extraordinary electrical abilities who finds himself running from authorities and foster homes. Thomas Green, known as Gizmo for his fascination with dismantling remote controls, can manipulate electronic devices and generates electrical shocks when stressed. His journey leads him to Pickering, where he uses his unique powers to recreate memories of his beloved Nana through electrical interference. After affecting local electronics and encountering compassionate locals, including a police officer and purple-haired Molly, Gizmo discovers he’s not alone in his uniqueness and chooses to join other gifted children at a special facility.
Pat Barnett, born in post-war Gorton, Manchester, has lived a richly varied life that informs her storytelling. After working with early computers in the 1960s and spending two decades in North Wales, she trained as a nursery nurse in her fifties. Her writing career blossomed during a decade in Australia with the Noosa Scribes, before returning to settle in Pickering, North Yorkshire, where she co-founded ‘The Wordbotherers’.
“Creatures” is a mesmerizing collection of supernatural and mysterious tales that blur the line between ordinary and extraordinary. From ancient legends to modern mysteries, each story explores the hidden magic within everyday life. The anthology showcases Barnett’s talent for weaving compelling narratives that challenge our understanding of reality and the supernatural.
