Chapter Three
The hotel was one of an increasing number of establishments trying to dispense with the need for human contact. Rooms were booked online, and the check-in process involved scanning a QR code to release each room's keycard.
Tom watched the lobby from the opposite side of the street. Only one member of staff on duty, but her role as hotel receptionist—besides answering the phone and greeting guests—also included running a bar and kitchen. Despite this, she still tried to help new arrivals with the check-in machines.
It was ten minutes before an opportunity presented itself. A group of Chinese students, led by a tired teacher, dragged their enormous suitcases into the hotel lobby.
Tom crossed the road, squeezing in behind the last student. The teacher stepped up to the first screen; the students flocked round her like needy ducklings, and the receptionist came over to help. As soon as she turned to the machine, Tom took his phone from his pocket, scanned his code, and was through the door to the rooms before the first student received their key card. The burst of concentration made his head ache.
Room 18 was small, but contained everything he needed. A bed, a bathroom, and a decent Wi-Fi connection.
Tom took off his bandana and stripped, stuffing his work clothes into one of the bin liners. He showered. Brick dust and dirt swirled around the drain. After drying off, he shaved his face and head.
Muted sounds from the neighbouring rooms provided a confused soundtrack: snatches of conversation, indecipherable dialogue from a television, the dull thump of dance music. Tom sat naked on the edge of the bed, slumped, his eyes on the brown and black carpet under the rough soles of his feet.
He waited for the first signs to appear. It didn't take more than a few minutes. The surrounding objects lost their names. The television at the foot of the bed was a shape with no purpose. The motorcycle helmet on the desk became neither familiar nor exotic, merely a reflective sphere. The bed underneath him was softer than the wooden desk. The light diffused by the thin curtains was different to that provided by the yellow glare of the lamp. But Tom forgot what made light different to darkness.
There was no panic. The opposite was true. The sense of peace fleetingly experienced in the storage unit flowed into the gaps left as identification and meaning dwindled. Tom looked back at his feet, his legs, his hands resting on his knees, but did not recognise them as his own.
His identity, and any awareness of being distinct from the television, the desk, or the last of the sunlight, followed the rest into obscurity. No thoughts. No body. Nobody.
Time may have passed, but as there was no Tom to mark it, there was no way of knowing. A human being sat on a bed in a compact hotel room near Leicester Square.
The very last thing to dissolve was the sense of waiting. The room itself seemed to collude with the anticipation, the stale air like a held breath. Then that too was gone.
When only emptiness remained, Bedlam Boy arrived.
Chapter Four
In any normal sense of the word, nothing changed. But, if anyone had witnessed what happened to the man in room 18, they would have seen a transformation.
It started with the bald man's eyes. For a while, unfocused, gaze fixed downwards, they saw nothing. Now the pupils moved from left to right, from the door to the darkening curtains. The big head moved next, as the man's posture altered, chest expanding, shoulders relaxing.
The body language of the man now sitting on the hotel bed was so altered, it was hard to believe it was the same person. There was confidence in the squaring of those shoulders, a latent energy in the previously indolent frame.
The man stood up and stretched, pulling one hand behind his head and holding it, then swapping to the other arm. He worked through a sequence of gentle yoga-like exercises, then stretched every muscle group.
He took the MacBook out of the suitcase, booted it up, and connected to the hotel Wi-Fi. A series of passwords opened hidden folders, and he accessed a program he had coded months before. He picked up his phone and tapped the screen, opening an app. Now the phone showed the same view as the laptop: Lo-Fi security camera footage of an end-of-terrace house, a Peugeot van parked on the drive.
The naked man got dressed, pulling the clothes out of the open suitcase on the floor. Jeans, shirt, running shoes.
In the bathroom, he cut six pieces of scalp tape into strips. He shook the black wig out of the net, sticking two pieces of tape onto it. He stuck the rest onto his head, peeling off the protective layer covering the sticky surface. In the gaps, he painted a thin layer of glue with a soft brush, avoiding the scars. The glue needed a smooth surface to stick to.
With the ease born of repetition, he pressed the front of the wig to his forehead before smoothing it back over his head. His natural eyebrow colour was light brown, but mascara enabled him to match the black wig. The eyes that stared back from his transformed face remained his familiar dark green. Contact lenses could alter their colour, but this was one feature he would not consider changing. For the four people on his list, those eyes would be the last thing they ever saw. He wanted them to recognise him.
He put on the leather jacket and scooped up the black helmet. When he put his hand on the keycard in the slot on the wall, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Upright now, six-foot-three, with a heavy, powerful body.
Tom might hunch himself up to avoid drawing attention to his bulk, but not Bedlam Boy. Now that Tom's slack features were animated by intelligence and purpose, even without the wig he would be almost unrecognisable to his fellow workmen. His mouth twitched into a smile. His expression didn't offer comfort, empathy, or forgiveness. He had seen horrors most people never dreamed of. A boy who shouldn't have lived, but who had held onto the thinnest of threads, clinging to life with a tenacity that no doctor predicted.
He knew the secret to his survival. A junior nurse had put her finger on the truth the day Tom Lewis was discharged from hospital.
"No one thought you would pull through. You should have seen the look on the doctor's face when you first opened your eyes. You were saved for a reason, Tom. I truly believe that. One day you'll find that reason. No one comes back from an injury like yours. No one."
She'd patted Tom's shoulder when the car arrived for him. "Good luck. Find out why you were saved."
Poor Tom, poor, gentle, silent Tom, smiled up at her, but didn't understand.
Bedlam Boy understood. He wondered what the nurse would make of the purpose he had found after twenty long years. He remembered the crucifix dangling from her neck. She probably wouldn't be best pleased.
The Boy smiled at his reflection, noting the cold fury in his eyes, the commitment, the lack of fear.
Time for someone to die.
"Looking good," he said.
Chapter Five
Marty intended to spend the evening working. He clumped down to the workshop at six and boxed up the latest batch of polymer ten-pound notes. Face value of fifty thousand pounds. Winter bought them at ten percent of that. Winter didn't sell them on, so any risk of exposure was negligible. The boss was too smart for that. He only used the fake notes to pad out his working capital. That way, they slotted into circulation slowly. Smart and cautious.
Not that Marty's notes had ever been exposed. His notes were good enough to pass all but the most thorough tests. He'd never got greedy, kept the counterfeit side of the business small, and built up a nice little nest egg over the last decade.
Once he'd sealed the box, Marty sat at his workbench. No banknote printing tonight. He had a fresh pile of number plates to make up. Fake number plates were more satisfying to construct than counterfeit banknotes, because he got to use his hands, rather than rely on a computer program. His number plates were indistinguishable from the genuine article. But, as he copied the registration numbers from real black cabs, turnover was high. More evidence of Winter's caution. A single evening's work—two or three strays picked up in the taxi Winter's crew used—and they tossed the
plates. Which meant Marty always needed to be four or five new numbers ahead of demand.
Two plates left in the drawer. Time to restock.
He opened WhatsApp on his phone and checked the updated list. Whenever any of Winter's people saw the opportunity, they sent a photo of a black cab licence plate to Marty's WhatsApp group. He used the most recent numbers posted, checking first against his master list. Not a good idea to use the same plate twice.
He typed the first number into the laptop and waited for the thermal printer to warm up and spit it out. In the meantime, he got the aluminium base plate and clear plastic faceplate ready. Sticking the number on and screwing it in place was hardly the work of a master craftsman, but there was a scrap of pride in a job well done. Also, he couldn't drive for Winter without them.
He pulled his stool back up to the bench as the printer hummed. The thin plastic strip emerged slowly, sliding onto the desk behind him. Marty prised open the fridge under the workbench with his foot and took out a cold beer. He took a long swig while he waited, using his other hand to prise out some stubborn debris from his capacious navel. He flicked the resulting clump of fluff into the bin. Marty liked a tidy workshop.
A selection of tools hung on the walls: hammers, drills, saws, screwdrivers racked in size order, chisels, planes, tape measures, Stanley knives, a sliding bevel, and a layout square. Metal drawers beneath held every size of screw and nail, glues, sandpaper, and some wood-turning tools. The latter items, plus two half-finished chairs and a standard lamp, were there in the unlikely event of a visit from the police. Best to have a plausible hobby to explain such a well kitted-out basement.
In fact, the basement workshop was the only tidy room in Marty's house. He ate off paper plates to avoid washing up, and when his microwave smelled bad, he'd drop it in the bin and buy another. His personal hygiene was as lax as his housekeeping. Years ago, Marty gave up wearing anything other than elasticated tracksuit bottoms and polo shirts. In winter, he added a hoodie. He only shaved when on a job for Winter. Why shave if you lived alone and rarely left the house?
There was Tay, of course, but Marty wouldn't change his bathing habits for that arsehole. Tay was, apparently, Marty's apprentice. Marty would have told the obnoxious little shit to piss off weeks ago, but he couldn't. Winter was Tay's uncle. Marty suspected that Winter envisaged a future where he wouldn't have to rely on his personal forger so much, if at all. Marty had been ordered to teach Tay everything. Tay was an inattentive pupil, more interested in boasting about his 'rep' as a dangerous gangster than learning the art of counterfeiting. Marty would have laughed in Tay's face at the gangster talk, but the kid carried a knife and his temper was short. Marty planned to teach him slowly and skip town before Winter made his move, or Tay shivved him over some imagined 'disrespect'.
Marty took the sheet out of the printer and lined up the number on the plate. He wrapped a cloth around a short length of dowel and pressed it against the still-warm numbers, rolling it left to right, careful to keep the pressure even to avoid bubbling.
Halfway through the job, he stopped. He had lost concentration. A wrinkle now spoiled the second letter. It was ruined, useless.
"Sod it."
He looked at the calendar on the wall - a freebie from a local tyre importer with a fresh semi-naked woman every month. Marty knew what day it was. He didn't need to check. June twenty-ninth. No wonder he couldn't work. He shouldn't even have tried.
With a grunt of shock, Marty realised it wasn't just any anniversary. It was twenty years. Twenty years to the day. He had been a different man then. Keen, ambitious, ruthless. Or so he thought.
Not so fat then, either. Marty pulled the grey, stained polo shirt down over the swell of his belly and eased himself off the stool. No point thinking about the past. No point at all.
There were no mirrors in the workshop, but Marty caught sight of his reflection in the plastic number plate. At forty-four years old, he looked the wrong side of sixty; the stubble on his pale, soft chins flecked grey-white, and his greasy hair retreating up his flaky scalp.
He paced up and down, his thighs rubbing together. Talcum powder stopped them getting raw. A shower might help distract him. Two decades. Shit.
First things first, though. Marty was hungry. Friday was pizza night. He fished his phone out and opened the pizza place app. A large meat feast, garlic bread. No. Two large meat feasts. Tay sometimes turned up uninvited and would help himself to Marty's dinner without asking. The cocky bastard.
He pressed the order button. Estimated delivery time seven-forty. Marty checked his watch. Six fifty-five. Enough time to shower first.
Before leaving the workshop, he opened a drawer and took out a tin box full of old keys. They all looked the same, unless you knew to look for a particular pattern of scratches. Marty lifted one of the hanging saws from the wall, revealing a hole cut into the MDF beneath. When he pulled on it, the panel hinged outwards, exposing a metal door concealed behind. The key turned in the lock, and Marty pushed the hidden door open, standing in the doorway.
When he'd had the basement converted to a workshop, Marty added this small room. He'd got the idea from Winter's house. He didn't know why Winter needed a soundproof basement and he hadn't asked. Especially since he referred to it as the dungeon.
It wasn't a big room. The bed filled most of it. It had no pillow, duvet, or blanket, just a stained elasticated sheet stretched across the mattress. A bucket stood in one corner. Marty sniffed the stale air. He'd been planning on changing the sheet, but the stench wasn't too bad. Various dried and pungent body fluids gave the stale air a unique tang. It had been a while since the last girl. Winter wasn't as generous with the cast-offs as he used to be. More evidence of time running out. Still, Marty might get to play with one more before he ran.
Marty stared at the room. He would miss this place when he escaped. It distracted him. And a distraction would have been welcome tonight, of all nights. He pictured the last girl; addicted, half-starved, her face slack and prematurely old. The kind of woman no one wanted. The only kind Marty deserved.
He sighed, shut the door, backed into the basement, then climbed the stairs to the kitchen. Flies buzzed around old takeaway boxes on the surfaces. He tore a black bin bag off the roll and swept most of the rubbish inside, tying the top and placing it in the corner. He'd had a cleaner for a while, but she'd stopped coming months back. Said she wouldn't do it anymore, not for any money. Stupid bitch. Still, what did it matter now? A month or two—six months, tops—and Marty would be gone. Thailand, or the Philippines. He hadn't decided yet.
He grabbed a handful of clothes from the dryer and went upstairs for a shower. Maybe he'd watch a movie later. Something funny. Something to stop his thoughts returning to what happened on June twenty-ninth, twenty years ago.
The shower was hot. He closed his eyes under the water, not letting himself see the layers of grime, limescale, and mildew. As he lifted his heavy paunch with one hand to soap it underneath, it growled. He was ravenous.
Marty hoped Tay stayed away tonight. He could eat both meat feasts, easy.
The bell rang just as he was pulling on a fresh polo shirt. He checked the front door cam on his phone. Was there any better sight on a Friday evening than a motorbike delivery guy, carrying a bag full of freshly cooked goodies?
Yeah. Pizza, movie, the vodka from the freezer, and a couple of joints to relax. He wouldn't think about what day it was anymore.
Chapter Six
Bedlam Boy knew Marty Nicholson's routines well. Pizza Friday was sacrosanct. The tiny cameras outside the Forger's house in Ilford recorded every delivery.
The Boy had watched the footage, making notes on Marty's habits.
He'd stolen a motorbike to follow Marty one evening, keeping the Forger's old Peugeot in sight until it pulled into an industrial estate. When a black cab left the estate ten minutes later, the Boy recognised the silhouette of its obese driver, and pulled in behind him. Marty stopped outside a new
sagent. When he returned to the cab, Bedlam Boy was ten yards behind, pretending to be texting. Marty fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and the Boy's right hand dropped to the throttle, ready to open it up, roar onto the pavement, and end Marty's sick, murderous life by sending his body careening down the street like the last pin in a bowling alley.
Striiiiiiiiiikkkkkkeeeeee!
Bedlam Boy got as far as engaging first gear, his fingers finding the biting point of the clutch, scar burning, eyes burning, body burning, the thought of Marty's broken and bloodied corpse almost too good to resist.
Almost.
But the Boy had come too far, worked too hard, to allow lack of discipline to spoil his plan now. He'd relaxed his grip, watched Marty drive away, and followed. When Marty picked up a young bearded man on the way into the city, the Boy hung back. Twenty-five minutes later, a middle-aged woman helped a confused, skittish girl into the cab, shutting her in with the bearded man. The Boy kept his distance. When Marty dropped his two passengers at a terraced house in Romford, the Boy stayed to place a camera on a lamppost opposite.
Bedlam Boy's method for placing cameras had proved undetectable so far. Even if he was observed, no one guessed what he was really doing. He carried rolls of stickers in his messenger bag. Some protested climate change, others promoted obscure bands. While he placed a sticker on a lamppost, telegraph pole, or wall, he positioned the camera with his other hand. He'd found a supplier of fake bird shit online, and the camera and battery tucked behind the rubber excreta. If anyone checked, they'd find the sticker. No one got too close to the wet-looking white and black streak nearby.
To date, he'd followed Marty on six occasions. He'd bailed out twice, when he couldn't stay close without making it too obvious he was tailing the black cab. The other occasions yielded a second address, another girl taken the same way, helped into the cab by the middle-aged woman. And, in a stroke of luck the Boy might have attributed to divine providence if there was a god, one of the photos on his phone caught the woman's face perfectly. Despite the wig, the glasses, and make-up that darkened her pale complexion, he recognised her immediately.
The Forger & the Traitor Page 2