Rhoda Ilích. Auntie Rhoda. He planned to visit her soon, but that unexpected glimpse brought on such a powerful reaction that he'd pushed his helmet's visor up, gulping the air.
That had been six months ago. Since then, the Boy had honed his plan, keeping it flexible, making sure to cover every known contingency. He could deal with unknown situations as they arose.
Six weeks before the anniversary, he was ready, but he waited. Bedlam Boy wanted his first visit to occur on June twenty-ninth. Twenty years to the day. That way, someone on the list might realise the significance of the date. Probably not after the first death. Maybe after the second. Surely by the third. He hoped so. He wanted them to know who was coming for them.
And now the day had arrived.
Bedlam Boy waited in a narrow side street often used by bikers and cyclists to cut half a mile out of the one-way system. He wore his black motorbike helmet, and stood next to an industrial bin, looking at his mobile phone. Staring at a mobile device was a superb method of urban camouflage. The pizza delivery rider didn't give him a second glance as he puttered towards him.
The Boy turned away from the approaching rider as if getting out of the way. The rider blipped the throttle, then came to an abrupt stop before flying backwards as an arm like a tree trunk swept him off his moped, and tossed him into the open bin.
"Phone."
The rider lifted his visor, eyes wide. "What the hell? You can't do this!"
"Give me your phone. I won't ask again."
The rider realised he was in no position to negotiate and held out his device. The Boy flicked it onto silent.
"I'll be back in an hour or two. I'll let you out and return your bike. Your phone too. Sit tight."
Bedlam Boy slammed the lid, clicked a combination padlock in place, wheeled it round a corner, and pushed it down a concrete ramp. It came to rest against the back door of a furniture shop, underneath a noisy air conditioning unit loud enough to cover any shouts for help.
The moped lay on its side. An old man walking a dribbling bulldog was standing next to it. The Boy started limping.
"I'm all right," he said to the unasked question. "I'll have a nice bruise to show for it."
He lifted the moped and got on. The suspension creaked under his bulk as he rode to the end of the street, turned right and pulled back into the Friday evening traffic.
The pizzas smelled good.
Eight minutes later, he rang Marty's bell, smiling behind the dark visor when he heard footsteps approaching the door.
Chapter Seven
Over the months, he had frequently seen Marty from a distance, but the Boy had never been this close to the man who'd shot him in the head. It was a disappointment.
Marty Nicholson had been a fit, handsome man in his mid-twenties two decades ago. Well-dressed, designer clothes, he'd kept his walnut-brown hair tidy, using mousse to style it into a Tintin-like curl. His preferred aftershave was Fahrenheit, and he used too much of it.
Bedlam Boy knew this because Marty had been kneeling behind him, arms wrapped around his chest, pinning him in place, while Tom Lewis's father was executed. A single bullet, point-blank, head shot. The Executioner had shot his mother in the stomach next, leaving her alive, tied to a chair. Soaked in petrol. When Winter and his crew left the house, they burned it to the ground, using her as kindling.
When the Executioner killed his father, Tom smelled blood, bone, and shit, but the parma violet and leather stench of Marty's neck had dominated even that.
The man who opened the door tonight to get his pizza didn't look like he used aftershave. He sported three or four days' worth of stubble, darkening in lines as it followed the rolls of fat on his neck. Marty Nicholson wore his thinning hair long, as if having enough for a ponytail might compensate for the growing expanse of skin on his forehead.
The eyes. The eyes were the same. Deeper set, watery, but the same. The last time the Boy had looked into them had been after Marty caught him, dragged him back from the open window of his bedroom as he tried to escape, and threw him onto the floor.
He'd looked into Marty's eyes because he didn't want to stare into the blind barrel of the silenced gun. For a second, Marty had looked back. The Boy saw hesitation, indecision.
"Time to break your duck, Marty." That's what the Executioner had said after shooting Tom's parents. Tom had bitten hard on Marty's fingers, wriggled free, and run for the stairs.
The Boy hadn't understood the phrase the Executioner used back then. He did now. And, in hindsight, he understood the reason for Marty's indecision. He'd never killed anyone before. And there he was, pointing a gun at a terrified twelve-year-old kid. Hesitation. Indecision.
Then Marty had broken eye-contact, the line of his gaze moving fractionally upward.
The old adage wasn't true. Tom Lewis heard the shot that killed him.
"Oh, bollocks. Come in, will you? Stick the pizzas on the table." Fat, old Marty patted the pockets of his tatty blue dressing gown and turned his back.
The Boy followed him into the kitchen. The floor tiles were sticky. A rotten, sweet smell suggested a rat had died in a cupboard. Marty opened a drawer and pulled out two twenty-pound notes. He looked up at the Boy and frowned, as if just noticing that the man he'd invited into his house was built like a heavyweight boxer.
The Boy lifted his visor. "Print those yourself, Marty?"
The sharp intake of breath may have been the shock of hearing his name, or the fact the intruder knew he was a forger, but the Boy hoped it was recognition.
His gloved right fist caught Marty on his left cheekbone. Not hard enough to break it, but that wasn't the Boy's intention. The jab just needed to knock Marty off-balance. He followed it up by grabbing him by the throat, pushing him back three feet, and smashing the back of his head into the greasy fridge-freezer behind him.
Marty exhaled, and his legs gave way. He fell sideways. The Boy stuck out his foot to prevent his skull smacking into the tiles.
"Uh-huh. Not yet, you don't."
He grabbed a fistful of dressing gown and dragged Marty through the door to the basement, kicking it closed behind him. Marty moaned and tried to stand. The Boy let him get to his feet, the fat man's expression more confused than afraid, then marched him down the steps to the workshop.
There was a wild exuberance about the Boy as he reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed Marty into a chair. He removed his helmet and placed it on the worktop. Marty looked at him and moaned.
The Boy was joyous, alive, and full of adrenaline. He sang as he took off his gloves and jacket.
Still I sing, bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonnie,
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink nor money
The Forger's eyes filled with tears. He held his hands up as if begging, without a hint of recognition in his eyes. "Please. Take whatever you want. You know about the counterfeiting, right? Do you want me to print some money for you? It's top quality, I promise. I have about ten grand in a box. Take that."
The Boy held up a hand, and Marty stopped babbling.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
Marty's mouth worked as if it might spit the right name out by itself, without his brain getting involved.
The Boy leaned in close. "Want a clue?"
Marty nodded, and the Boy dropped his voice to a whisper. "I'm dead. I died twenty years ago today. How could you forget, Marty? You've hurt my feelings."
As Marty stared in shock, Bedlam Boy took two vices from a shelf, attached them to the bench, and opened both a couple of inches. He grabbed Marty's right hand, shoved it into the first and tightened it. Not enough to break fingers, but enough to cause considerable pain. As Marty hissed and swore, the Boy did the same with his left hand.
With Marty pinned in place, Bedlam Boy squatted in front of him and peeled back enough of his wig to reveal the mass of ridged, pink scarring on his scalp. The man responsib
le for the scar gaped like a fish and started hyperventilating.
"In case you're wondering, Marty, yes, I am here to kill you."
Chapter Eight
Tay was looking forward to this. He'd hung around Marty for months now, pretending he gave a shit about anything the greasy pig man said, giving him respect. Enough was enough.
Tonight was payback for all the, "Yes, Marty, no Marty," bullshit. As if Marty Nicholson had anything to teach Tay. Any idiot could print money and number plates or construct a fake ID. You didn't need a degree. You didn't need a six-month apprenticeship with a coward who hid in his basement.
Not just a coward. Not just a failure. A month earlier, while Marty drove the cab for Rhoda, Tay let himself in. He was a housebreaker for years before his uncle invited him to join the business. Tay knew where people hid the quality stuff. It took him fifteen minutes to find Marty's fake passport, twenty grand in cash, and cards for a bank account in a new name.
Uncle Robert—Tay called him Winter now—had praised his initiative, giving Tay the opportunity he'd been angling for since doing odd jobs for Winter as a green seventeen-year-old. In the intervening three years, he learned to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. Tay paid attention, worked hard, and, earlier than expected, joined the crew full-time. Winter kept numbers low. Marty, Rhoda, Penny—his housekeeper—made up the inner circle. Working for Winter was that rarest of things: a job for life. Not in the 'shares in the company, pension plan, and gold watch when you retire' sense. More the 'think about leaving and we'll kill you' sense.
Tonight was the night Tay got to hand Marty his P45, personally. Strickland, Winter's hitman, had loaned Tay the gun. It weighed heavily in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't own a holster, and Strickland hadn't offered him one. So the piece went in the bag along with his favourite knife.
Tay had never killed anyone before, but he'd been in some fights. He'd won all of them. Tay held no reservations about sticking a blade into his opponent, and he'd been quick to do just that. It bought him a reputation. Winter warned Tay not to search out trouble. "Trouble will find you soon enough. Strickland will teach you how to use a weapon. Never forget, if you work for me, even if you're the one doing the stabbing or pulling the trigger, it's only on my say so. Or you'll upset me. You got that?"
Tay got it. No one upset Winter, ever.
Here in Marty's kitchen, Tay felt desperate to use some of Strickland's knife moves. Not that Marty would be a worthy opponent. It would be like butchering a stunned animal. Still, at least he'd get to fire a gun at something other than a beer bottle.
Tay's heartbeat rose from dub, through hip-hop, to drum and bass in the thirty seconds after entering the kitchen. Adrenaline mixed with the line of coke he'd done off the dashboard before coming in.
He took the knife out of the messenger bag and slid it out of its sheath. Five inches long, serrated blade, wicked sharp.
Muffled sounds from the basement. Good. That's where Marty would die. Tay's plan was simple. Persuade the fat wanker to cooperate by sticking him in the shoulder. Not too deep. Enough to bleed a bit. Enough to scare him. Then march him through to the soundproof room. Tay shuddered at the thought of what the pervert might have done in there. Tay reminded himself not to underestimate Marty. He'd been a killer once. The point of Tay's knife must never leave Marty's back. Once in that soundproof room, all bets were off. Tay could take his time, try some things he'd been daydreaming about for years. Like shooting someone in the kneecap. Was it as painful as people said? Would the bone explode, bits going everywhere?
He had the whole night to indulge himself. He intended to make the most of it. It was ages since he'd done something for himself, something fun.
Tay held the knife with the butt resting on his curled right fingers, the blade flat against his wrist and forearm, hidden from view.
With his hand on the basement door handle, he paused, looking back at the two unopened pizza boxes on the table. Marty never waited to eat. Tay backed up and opened the first box. The pizza inside was a mess - squashed up at one end, most of the topping smeared along the cardboard lid.
Tay frowned at the pizza. Something wasn't right, but he struggled to put a series of events together that would explain the uneaten pizza in Marty's kitchen. The puzzled expression remained on his face for a few seconds, then he shrugged and returned to the basement door, dismissing the mystery as unimportant.
Halfway down the stairs he realised he'd been wrong - it was very important. By then, the knife was in his hand, and he was operating on pure instinct, heart thumping even faster.
Tay heard Marty whimper like a baby. An enormous guy was standing in the workshop, and his back blocked Tay's view of everything else. The size of the guy was good news. Big guy, big target. And Tay's position on the stairs gave him a tactical advantage. He held the higher ground. It meant he could reach the guy's neck. Didn't matter how big you were, five inches of steel in the side of your neck made you deader than dead.
Two more steps and he'd be close enough. As he drew back his arm, ready to strike, Tay grinned.
Chapter Nine
Bedlam Boy knew his body was human, constituted of bones, blood, veins, ligaments, muscles, and skin. Go deeper and cells provided the building blocks. Deeper still to the particles that make up the cells, and a strange landscape appeared, where matter itself occupied a tiny proportion of the surrounding space. The Boy had scanned a few books about it, but put them aside for their lack of practical information. His outlook on life was pragmatic, and—unlike almost everyone else alive—he had a clear, achievable purpose. Four people were responsible for the murders of his father and mother. Four people needed to die.
If not for Marty Nicholson's incompetence, Tom Lewis would have died twenty years ago. And without Tom, there would be no Bedlam Boy.
Bedlam Boy—born singing, laughing, ready to stab, shoot, strangle, slice and dice—had sprung into existence like the best magic trick ever seen. He had a touch of the demon about him. He was a creature of shadows. He never slept, instead fading in and out of existence. When awake, he burned with a black flame that, rather than banishing shadows, deepened and darkened them.
His body was big and strong - that much was down to genetics. The muscles, combined with a litheness surprising in such a large frame, was a product of the Boy's will, and of years of training. The long period of preparation served a single purpose: to ensure he would be ready when the time came to visit the four names on his list.
And he was ready.
Bedlam Boy knew he had huge gaps in his education, but he had devoted a great deal of time to subjects that mattered. Subjects that would ensure he prevailed when he visited the names on his list. Practical subjects. Combat tactics, for example.
That was why, before tightening the vices onto Marty Nicholson's fingers, he had picked up one of the blank, plastic-coated number plates, leaning it against the laminating machine.
A reflected movement had caught his eye seven seconds ago. A wiry man in shorts, knife in hand, descending the workshop stairs.
It was all he could do not to laugh aloud at the exaggerated way the man crept, trying each stair with his toe before transferring his weight to it.
The Boy sang silently to himself as he watched the man's progress in the number plate.
I went down to Satan's kitchen, for to beg me food one morning
There I got souls piping hot, all on the spit a turning.
Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonnie
He waited patiently for the man to come within range. If he acted too soon, his attacker might run. He looked like he could beat the Boy in a race. Bedlam Boy was quicker and lighter on his feet than he looked, considering his bulk, but his body was all wrong for sprinting. So he waited. Closer, then closer still. Waited until the man brought his arm back and up to attack. Then, swiftly, and with a brutal economy, he spun on his left toe and unleashed a backhand sla
p that should have seen the wiry man knocked off his feet into the unforgiving concrete wall.
Only it didn't. His opponent had excellent reflexes. He flinched backward the moment Bedlam Boy moved. Even so, the tips of the Boy's fingers caught his chin, snapping his head back, and pulling something in his neck, judging by the tortured howl he let out. Still, he didn't give up. As the Boy prepared to follow up with a jab from his clenched fist, his attacker surprised him again by dropping into a squat and slashing the knife up and across.
Despite Bedlam Boy's dodge, the tip of the knife, slowed by the leather jacket, pierced skin and opened up a long gash in his side, half an inch deep.
Ignoring the pain, the Boy stuck to his plan, delivering a brisk jab that caught the wiry man squarely on his breastbone, slapping him down into the steps behind him hard enough to hurt, but leaving him conscious, and still dangerous.
Bedlam Boy drew back his right hand for a punch that would finish this, but a sound behind made him half-turn. He had just enough time to register Marty pulling one vice away from the workbench before it smashed into the side of his head, sending him reeling.
The Boy watched the fat man, the wiry man, and the workshop disappear down a long tunnel.
No. No.
He slept.
Tom knew he must be dreaming. He was in the hotel room, fast asleep. His dreams were never like this. The ones he remembered featured visions of his parents, and he knew they weren't real. Not like this. This was different. A fat man with something metal clamped onto his fingers was screaming at a second man, thinner and smaller.
The Forger & the Traitor Page 3