The Forger & the Traitor

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Finish him! Kill him! Fuck's sake, Tay, kill him. Now! What are you doing?"

  The smaller man held something shiny. It was a knife, and it had thick red blood on its tip. Tom looked away, feeling sick. The sight of blood scared him. Pain now. He didn't know there was pain in dreams. Looking down, he pulled his jacket to one side and saw the fresh wet red stain on his T-shirt. He looked at the men, frightened. The fat one was still shouting.

  "He's only dazed. Stab him, you stupid bastard."

  The younger man rubbed his neck without taking his eyes off Tom. "Shut up, Marty. I've got a better idea."

  "Mm. Mm." Tom wanted to wake up. If this was what dreams without his parents were like, he wanted no part of them.

  The man with the knife laughed. "Check out this poor bastard. How hard did you hit him? He can't even speak."

  The man waved his hand in front of Tom's face. "Anyone in? Hello? Hello?"

  He threw the knife down, reached into the bag, and pulled out a gun. It was dull black, ugly, with a long barrel screwed on to the end.

  The fat man snorted when he saw it. "Where did you get the piece, Tay? You trying to tell me Winter trusts you with a gun now?"

  The gunman—Tay—looked away from Tom, his eyes flicking towards the fat man. And everything changed.

  Tom disappeared.

  Bedlam Boy took two fast steps forward. Tay reacted, but the Boy was faster, pinning the gun between their two bodies. He brought his hand up to cover the other man's fist, finding Tay's finger on the trigger, the barrel pointing towards Marty. Marty realised the danger he was in a fraction of a second before the Boy squeezed and the gun popped, the long barrel jerking as the bullet left the chamber.

  Marty grunted in surprise, then wheezed and dropped to one knee. Blood gushed out of the wound in his thigh. He tried to staunch the bleeding, but the vice still gripped his right hand, and his left hand was attached to the workbench. He settled for screaming.

  Tay joined the chorus when Bedlam Boy twisted his gun hand one hundred-and-eighty degrees anti-clockwise, tearing three ligaments and snapping his ulna and radius.

  The Boy pulled the gun away from him. Tay went for the knife, dropping into a fighting stance when he had it in his left hand. He froze at the sight of the gun barrel pointing at his chest.

  Tay wasn't on Bedlam Boy's list. He was young. Maybe still in his teens. He probably hadn't been born when Winter and his crew executed the Lewis family and burned their house to the ground. Tay carried a knife and a gun, and—judging by what Marty said—worked for Winter, but that didn't mean he deserved to die.

  Tay was sweating. His useless hand hung at his side. The slightest movement made him gasp in pain. In between gasps, he ground his teeth. His pupils were black dots.

  "Mate," he said, slowly moving his knife hand over the bench, and dropping the blade onto the surface. "Think we got off on the wrong foot, yeah? When I came downstairs, I thought you were robbing the place. But I was wrong, wasn't I? You came here to kill Marty, right?"

  The Boy was silent. Tay took that as encouragement to continue. "Right? Yeah. Me too. That's why I'm here. Funny, right? We both came here to kill the twat. If I'd known, I'd have left you to it."

  Marty spat blood onto the concrete floor. "You little scumbag. Where's your loyalty? Do you think Winter won't find out about this? You're finished, you piece of shit." He took a ragged breath, wincing and pushing down on the hole in his thigh. He eyed the Boy.

  "You, too, you freak. You should have had the sense to stay dead. Do you have any idea who you're messing with? Winter will take everything you love when he finds out you're alive. Then he'll kill you piece by piece, and you'll be begging him to die the whole time. He'll cut out your liver, he'll—"

  Tay raised his eyebrows at Bedlam Boy and nodded towards Marty. "All right if I...?"

  The Boy responded with a tiny nod. Tay kicked Marty in the side of the head, and the Forger yelped, falling to his side and curling up.

  "Shut up, Marty."

  The man on the floor started crying. Tay turned his left hand palm up, his right still hanging by his side.

  "Listen, if you let me go, I'll tell my boss I killed Marty. That way, he won't even know you were here. It's the perfect crime, see? Sorry I stabbed ya, mate. But—" He raised his twisted and broken right hand. "Quits, right? Right?"

  Bedlam Boy said nothing, and Tay took a single pace sideways towards the stairs. When the gun barrel moved from his chest to point at his head, he stopped. When he opened his mouth to speak, a tiny shake of the Boy's head persuaded him to keep quiet.

  The Boy was thinking. He was only interested in the names on the list. Tay wasn't on the list. But his promise to say nothing was a lie. He was leaving without his weapons, and there would be no hiding the injuries to his hand. No. More likely Tay would go to Winter and describe what he'd seen. He would probably exaggerate the Boy's size, maybe add extra assailants to explain his defeat.

  Bedlam Boy had planned this too long to allow anything to spoil it. He wanted Winter to know who was coming, so he could feel the fear as the Boy stalked him, killing his people, getting closer and closer.

  But not yet. It was too soon.

  "Sorry," he said, and shot Tay through the forehead. The bullet entered at the bridge of his nose, and he dropped without a sound.

  "Jesus," said Marty, "Jesus. Oh god, oh god. Please. Please don't."

  Bedlam Boy put the gun on the workbench and watched Marty Nicholson as he tried to drag himself away, leaving a streak of blood on the floor to mark his progress. He didn't get far, as his left hand was still attached to the bench. When Bedlam Boy put a boot on Marty's back, the Forger sighed and passed out.

  The Boy rolled Marty over and reattached the other vice, making sure it was secure this time.

  While he waited for the Forger to regain consciousness, he examined the knife wound in his side. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding, and would probably need stitches. He checked the workshop for something to use as a makeshift bandage. Finding a roll of duct tape in a drawer, he tore off two pieces to close the wound, then wrapped a layer around his waist to hold it in place.

  Marty groaned and opened his eyes. The Boy waited until the Forger's eyes focused on him.

  "Now," he said, "where were we?"

  Chapter Ten

  "What do you want?" Marty's voice sounded weak and flat. He looked behind the Boy, where Tay's corpse lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. The Boy smiled.

  "That's how you shoot someone in the head, Marty. If you want to be sure you'll kill them, that is. It's called the T-box." He drew a capital T on his own face, using his nose as the vertical, drawing the horizontal line across his eyes.

  "At close range, such as,"—he nodded back towards the body—"or when you shot me, twenty years ago, if you aim for the T, it doesn't even matter what calibre you use. The trauma from the bullet's kinetic energy, transferred to vital parts of the brain behind the nose and eyes, will put anyone down."

  He shook his head at Marty as if teaching a particularly slow child. "No good shooting the skull. It's thick, Marty. Designed to protect the brain. You will cause damage, but death is far from certain. Still, I don't blame you for messing things up. I blame Winter for that. Who showed you how to fire a gun? Didn't do the job properly. Strickland?"

  "Yes, yes, Strickland, it was Strickland." Marty's skin glistened. His breath came in rapid gasps, and his lips had taken on a bluish tinge. "Winter ordered me to do it. I didn't want to. I begged him. Strickland gave me his gun, showed me what to do. I had no choice. You understand that, right? They would have killed me if I had refused. And you'd be dead. You're only alive because they asked me, don't you see? Really, you owe me. And I changed, I changed. I wouldn't touch a gun again. I couldn't stop thinking about you. If I could take it back, I would, I swear. Look, Tom… it's Tom, right? You don't need to do this. I have more money upstairs. Real money. I planned on leaving, anyway. Take the cash. I'll disappear. I'
ll tell you where to find the others."

  The Boy put a finger to his lips and shushed him. "I know where they are, Marty. I don't need your help. Do you have pen and paper?"

  "Second drawer down. Please, Tom, don't—"

  The Boy whirled round and spat the words out, his face an inch from Marty's. "Tom is dead, Marty. You did that much right. You shot a twelve-year-old boy in the head and killed him. But that bullet planted a seed that grew in the dark, in the chaos, in the clouds of blood. And that seed became a sapling, and that sapling became a tree, and that tree produced one fruit, which hung from its branches for a very long time until it was ripe. Then it dropped to the floor and became a beast that crawled on its belly. One day, it found it had limbs, and dragged itself out of the dirt, prowling, hunting, learning. Later, it stood on its hind legs and its eyes opened for the first time in the darkness."

  When the Boy stood up, Marty's expression had changed, his mouth slack. "You're mad."

  "Of course!" The Boy danced around the workshop, singing as he whirled between the benches.

  There I picked up a cauldron, where boiled ten thousand harlots

  Though full of flame I drank the same, to the health of all such varlets

  He opened the drawer, still dancing, and wrote four words on the notepaper, placing it next to the vice holding Marty's left hand.

  Bedlam Boy is coming

  He picked up the gun from the workbench. Marty's eyes were glassy and unfocused. It didn't matter to the Boy. He didn't care about last words, changes of heart, expressions of regret. If Marty, rather than going into shock, expressed remorse, and admitted his life choices had caused more bad than good, so what? Nothing changed. The dance began with Marty; the first verse of the song the Boy was born to sing.

  He aimed the gun.

  "T-box, Marty," he said. "Strickland should have told you."

  Marty looked up at him.

  "Did you bring me a girl?" Whoever Marty saw, it wasn't the man about to kill him. "You promised you would. Can you take her to the room?"

  The Boy shot Marty Nicholson between his eyes. The Forger's head sagged. If it hadn't been for one last exhalation then silence, it might not have been immediately obvious that he was dead.

  Before leaving the house, the Boy closed his eyes and conjured up the image of Tom's home, before the slaughter, before the fire. It was always clear in every detail whenever he wanted to visit. He walked through the empty living room, up the three steps to where Mother's desk waited, tucked underneath the staircase. He pictured the list on the desk's leather writing surface, written in black ink on yellow parchment.

  Bedlam Boy lifted a heavy fountain pen and crossed out The Forger, before looking at the next name: The Traitor.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Boy searched Marty's house. There was a padded envelope containing thousands of pounds, but he wouldn't take money from a forger. He left with Tay's messenger bag, which now contained the knife and the gun.

  Over six consecutive nights a month earlier, Bedlam Boy had left Tom's lodgings by the bedroom window and gone to watch the change of shift at some of London's major hospitals. Following tired paramedics home, the Boy had made a mental list of those who lived alone, remembering the addresses. Two of them were in Southgate, only a few miles from the building site Tom had worked at for the past six weeks. One of them was less than a mile away from an address he had memorised earlier that day. Perfect.

  The Boy stood in Marty's kitchen, eyes shut, and reviewed the moment Tom had squiggled what passed for a signature on his wages slip in the Hartnell's office. His recall was perfect, a pin-sharp image of everything Tom saw. Nothing on the desk was of any use, but an envelope in the wastepaper basket gave him a road name and number.

  He opened his eyes and zipped up the jacket, wincing a little as it tightened on his injured side. Once the helmet was on, he slung the messenger bag across his body and left the house, closing the door quietly behind him. It was past midnight. No need to disturb the neighbours.

  He wheeled the moped around the corner of the road before starting it up and heading for the North Circular.

  He rode past the Hartnells' house twice before parking a street away and walking back. It was large, detached, set back a little way from the road. Les Hartnell lived well for an ex-con with a murder conviction. The house was newer than its neighbours. The Boy imagined Hartnell had used the cheap materials and labour available to him to build his tasteless little palace.

  As he walked up the short drive, he saw the telltale flickers of blue light between a gap in a downstairs curtain. Not in bed, then. Watching television. Good.

  Bedlam Boy giggled as the motion sensor picked him up, and the front of the house was bathed in harsh white light. Every warrior must be able to think as fast as they act, improvising when necessary. Tay's appearance earlier had been a painful reminder of this necessity. The Boy's plan for the next ten minutes was simple. It had to be, since he conceived it in the few seconds before banging on the door and shouting.

  "Boss! Boss! There's a fire! Mr Hartnell? Are you in there? The site's on fire. Boss! Can you hear me? Are you there?"

  He gave his voice a touch of East London, repeating the same words and thumping the door, until the hall light flicked on and he saw Les Hartnell's distorted form through the swirled glass of the front door. The Boy stood side on, bending forward, disguising his bulk.

  "What did you say?"

  "The site, Mr Hartnell. It's on fire."

  Hartnell came closer, putting his hand to the lock. A series of excited barks came from the living room. "Who are you?"

  "It's Andy, Boss, Andy. Quick!"

  There were two Andys on site, and a third turned up on busier days.

  Mrs H's smoke-gravelled voice joined in. "Who is it, Les?"

  Hartnell hesitated. The Boy repeated his message, keeping his tone urgent and panicky. If he gave Hartnell time to think, he might wonder why someone had turned up at his door, rather than phoning him. He might even ask how this particular Andy knew where he lived.

  As it was, he slid the security chain in place before opening the door an inch. "What's going on?"

  It was all the invitation Bedlam Boy needed. He shoulder-barged the door, and it gave way with a splintering of wood, ripping the chain away, and sending Hartnell flying backwards into the hall. No doubt he was now regretting using the same shoddy, cheap front door for his own house as he did for the homes on his sites.

  Bedlam Boy stepped into the hall at the same moment the door on the left opened and a ball of fur and teeth pelted out, its claws scrabbling for purchase on the polished hardwood-effect flooring.

  "Get him, Bobby, get him!" Mrs Hartnell, in a pink flannelette dressing gown with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, looked like she was auditioning for a sitcom set in nineteen seventy-seven. She ruined the effect by pulling a mobile phone from her pocket.

  When Bobby reached the intruder's feet, he stopped, sniffed, put his head on one side, sniffed again, then leaped up to rest his paws on the Boy's knees, asking for a head scratch. The Boy obliged with his left hand. He used his right hand to discourage Mrs Hartnell from calling the police by pointing the gun at her.

  "Put your phone on the floor and slide it towards me." No need to disguise his voice, as Tom had barely spoken during the weeks he'd spent on the building site.

  Mrs H did as instructed. When the phone reached him, Bedlam Boy stamped on it. The glass splintered, and the screen flickered, then died. The Jack Russell sniffed, then returned to the Boy for more attention.

  "Bobby!" There was no missing the note of wounded betrayal in Mrs H's voice as Bobby tilted his head to offer alternate scratching locations.

  "Wha—what do you want?" Les Hartnell's conversational tone was famously abrasive and harsh. He was so tightly coiled that even the word, "hello?" sounded like a threat. Not now, though. Now his voice shook.

  Mrs H looked at her husband, sitting splayed-leg in
the corner. He was barefoot, wearing grey jogging bottoms and a white sweatshirt. There was a small pool of liquid on the floor, originating from his crotch. She narrowed her eyes.

  "Jesus, Les."

  He didn't acknowledge her, instead watching the big man with the gun.

  "You want money? I have some cash. Not much. Friday, see? Payday. A few hundred, that's all."

  The Hartnells were old school with money. Cash was king. Money that didn't go through the banks was bloody hard for the tax people to trace later. The Boy laughed and extended his gun arm.

  "Open your safe for me. Now."

  Hartnell didn't deny the existence of a safe. He made a high-pitched sound somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, scrambled to his feet, and pointed at the door to the Boy's right.

  "It's in there."

  The Boy backed up and waved Hartnell over. He motioned Mrs H to follow. She did as directed, shaking her head at her husband as he scuttled into the room, stood by the safe in the corner and waited for further instructions. After searching for a suitable way to express her feelings, she repeated, "Jesus, Les."

  They'd set the room up as an office with shelves and a desk besides the heavy safe. The curtains were closed.

  Bedlam Boy directed Mrs H to the office chair. "Sit down."

  She did as instructed, folding her arms. The Boy pointed the gun at her husband.

  "Open it."

  Les Hartnell spun the combination with trembling fingers, making a mistake and starting over. "Sorry," he squeaked. Bobby sat on the Boy's feet, head on paws, yawning. Mrs H looked between her dog and her husband in disgust.

  The safe had three shelves. Two of them contained paperwork. The top shelf held rubber-banded stacks of twenty-pound notes. Hartnell indicated one of these with a shaking finger. "That's a grand." When the Boy didn't respond, he added, "Shall I bring the money over to you?"

  "Oh, for god's sake," said his wife.