But where was her phone?
When the shape spoke, sweat broke out all over her body, and her heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.
"Hello, Auntie Rhoda."
Chapter Sixteen
Breaking into Rhoda's flat was simple. Bedlam Boy had lifted Rhoda's keys out of her handbag months ago, taken moulds, and replaced them before she knew they were missing.
Once inside, the Boy didn't waste any time. 1:30 a.m., and Rhoda would be back within the hour. He walked through the flat, checking for weapons. Even a face-full of pepper spray might spoil his fun somewhat.
In the bedroom, he noted the phone charger on the bedside table. He walked the route he planned to take, listening for noisy floorboards, and noting their position. A few drops of oil silenced the bedroom door's hinges.
Once he'd memorised the layout, Bedlam Boy relaxed, singing to himself as he waited. The cupboard in the hall was deep, and a pile of old sheets on top of some half-used paint tins made a comfortable seat. He shared the space with a large wheeled suitcase. He took out his phone. The camera on her garden gate gave him a perfect view of the back door. He waited. Waiting was something the Boy was very, very good at.
When he saw Rhoda walk up the path, he turned his phone off, zipping it into a jacket pocket. He listened to her move around the kitchen, stifling a laugh when she opened the hall cupboard door and hung a bag on a hook without looking. He almost yelled, "Boo!" but clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself.
After an hour, the flat settled into a deeper silence. Bedlam Boy uncurled, stretching his limbs in the dark hallway to rid himself of any clicks or pops from bones and joints. He negotiated the flat from memory. The images in his mind stayed so bright and sharp, he might have been walking in daylight.
The kitchen cupboards clicked when opened, so he had left one ajar. The Boy reached into the fuse box and flicked the master switch. The numbers on the microwave vanished, leaving a ghostly green afterimage.
Bedlam Boy loved the darkness. They were old friends. He and Tom had lived without a shred of light for a year. When Tom found his way back, the Boy stayed put, an idea slipping between twists of shadows, a formless dark tumour buried in the ink-black hollows. He grew strong there. Even now, when he played outside, he never forgot where he belonged. The dark tapestry, the ancient terror, the long night. Home.
The Boy didn't breathe for thirty seconds after entering the bedroom. He insinuated himself into the darkness, listened to the sounds of sleep, then crossed to her bedside and unplugged her phone.
Once at the foot of the bed, he breathed again, each inhalation and exhalation long and controlled. He maintained his pulse at fifty-eight beats per minute. With each passing moment, the Boy became more at one with the night, his edges bleeding into the familiar darkness surrounding him.
The power seeped into him like fresh cement into a trough. The dark, the stillness, the oneness - all of it fed him. As he drew the night into himself, he remembered the last time Tom had been this close to the sleeping woman. Auntie Rhoda, tucking little Tom into bed, allowing him one more chapter before turning out his light. It was the last time he saw her. Hours later, a stranger pulled him out of bed, took him downstairs, and held him tight while his parents died.
She didn't stay to watch. Now Rhoda worked for the man who killed his family.
The Boy hissed.
Her breathing changed. She was awake. He listened intently. There wasn't enough light to see by, but a dozen tiny sounds told him her head had moved. She was looking at him. He smiled. The smile broadened at the click of the useless lamp. He waited for her to reach out for her phone.
When he moved, he came so close he could have touched her face. The contents of her medicine cabinet suggested Rhoda suffered from insomnia. Bedlam Boy wondered if, when she did sleep, she had nightmares. He hoped so. If not, that would change.
"Hello, Auntie Rhoda."
The woman in the bed didn't reply, but her throat made a dry sound as if trying to swallow something sharp. He leaned in close.
"It's been a long time."
Bedlam Boy didn't need to see Rhoda's face. Her terror was obvious in the rapid, trapped animal breathing, the clicks of her windpipe in her tight throat, the sour breath and fresh sweat.
The woman staring up into the blackness had just woken up to a world she didn't belong in, alone in an alien landscape.
Rhoda was in the dark. The Boy was of the dark.
He allowed a lengthy pause to stretch out before he spoke again. Long enough for her to wonder if this was a vivid nightmare.
"Do you know who I am?"
Rhoda's breathing returned to its previous gasps. She sounded like she was being fed oxygen from a teaspoon, sipping frantically at it to stay alive. Such a desperate sound. He enjoyed listening to it.
"Answer me."
She tried. The Boy listened to Rhoda struggle. The voice that emerged was a harsh, painful whisper.
"You… you can't be. Can't be."
Leaning in close, his breath on her face, he spoke again.
"Say my name."
"No. It's impossible."
"Say it."
"You're dead, you're dead. You can't be here."
"I killed Marty, Auntie Rhoda. I killed him first. I made a list. Now say my name."
Whether the sobs were remorseful, or a by-product of her terror, the Boy didn't care.
"Tom?"
Bedlam Boy giggled. "Mad Tom! Poor Mad Tom!"
He danced on the spot and sang.
For to see my Tom of Bedlam, ten thousand miles I'd travel
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes, to save her shoes from gravel
"Oh, Auntie Rhoda, Tom is dead, or as good as. Poor Tom. You answer me now. Bedlam Boy has questions. Have you led a good life? Will you leave the world better than you found it? Do you wonder what happens to those girls and boys you picked out for Winter? How many of them kill themselves? Do you ever think about the night you betrayed my family? Mum said she took you off the streets. But she didn't groom you and sell you to the highest bidder, she gave you a home. And you let Winter and his people into that home to kill us. Auntie Rhoda, I don't think you've led a very good life at all. Do you?"
Rhoda surprised him by rasping out an answer.
"No. No, I don't. Are you going to kill me?"
"Yes. Of course I am. You're next on the list. But…"
He paused. A bit theatrical, perhaps, but he liked it.
"But what?" Rhoda's voice was almost normal. Her breathing, too. The trapped animal comparison came to his mind again. Didn't snared rabbits do this - give up, stop struggling, when the hunter approached with the knife?
"But I want you to see me coming, Auntie Rhoda." He sat on the edge of the bed, and a moan escaped the woman lying there. "Remember playing hide and seek?"
"Yes."
"Can't tell you how much fun that was. When Mum and Dad were busy. In some ways, you brought me up, didn't you? Such lovely memories. But then I keep seeing Winter dousing my mum in petrol, or Dad's blood splattering the wall when Strickland puts a bullet through his head. And I have to say that rather spoils the memory. Still, in honour of the years you spent caring for me before betraying my family to the man who murdered them, I will count to ten."
"What?" Her voice was colourless. The Boy wondered when, or if, the shock would fade. He smiled at her in the darkness.
"You always counted to ten before coming to find me. When you got to ten, my heart would hammer in my chest. Exciting. Scary, too. Properly scary. I dreaded being found. When you did find me, we always laughed. You would tickle me, do you remember?"
"Yes." Still the drained, flat tone.
"Well, same arrangement now. I'll count to ten. You hide. You can go outside if you like. I'll count really, really slowly. It won't be any fun if I find you straight away, will it?"
Bedlam Boy reached out into the blackness, finding Rhoda's face. He rested his hand on her cheek, wet with
tears. She trembled like that trapped rabbit. A sound like air escaping from a puncture came from her lips.
"Oh, and Auntie Rhoda? Just so we're clear. When I find you, I won't tickle you. You understand that, right? No laughing. Just—"
He made the sound every schoolchild knows how to make: that of a throat being cut.
"So better find a fantastic place to hide. Right." He stood up, took two steps away from the bed. "Off you go. Ten."
Rhoda didn't hesitate. She bolted from the bed as if it were on fire.
"Nine."
In the front room, she trod on the squeaky floorboard a moment before her shin smacked into the coffee table. The Boy winced on her behalf, and called out after her, "Eight."
He pictured her dragging the wheeled suitcase out of the cupboard. Ready to run at a moment's notice.
"Seven."
The suitcase contained a pair of trainers, four changes of clothes, toiletries and makeup, a laptop, an external hard drive, a new mobile phone, and a fake passport in the name of Carla Outen. Bedlam Boy had used the time waiting for Rhoda to install spyware on the laptop and phone, plus tracking bugs in the trainers, the makeup bag, the suitcase itself, and all five pairs of shoes he'd found. The final tracker went in the sole of the boots she'd been wearing when she got home.
"Six."
Rhoda experienced some difficulty with the security chain. The Boy pictured her scraping it back and forth, wearing pyjamas, her feet stuffed into unlaced boots.
"Five."
The chain came free, and she opened the door. The Boy gave her a brief round of applause, which he doubted she appreciated. Wheels scraped along the gravel path. When she passed the wall, with just a brick's width between them, he said, "Four," wondering if she could hear him. She half-tripped, then moved faster, so he guessed the answer was yes.
The front gate smacked against the fence.
She must be out of earshot by now. He could cheat and stop counting if he liked. But no. That would make him as bad as her.
"Three."
He thought of his father's face, staring right into the barrel of Strickland's gun, his expression neutral. As if he'd already died. He didn't see his son struggling to get free of Marty.
"Two."
Rhoda had made quite a comfortable life for herself since that night. Tonight marked her return to the streets, where Mum found her before Tom was born. This time, it was different. She had clothes, credit cards, and the five thousand Euros in the pocket at the back of the suitcase.
"One."
The Boy opened a custom app on his phone. The screen showed a pulsating yellow dot on a blue map. Rather than aim for the main roads, she stuck to the side streets. His phone vibrated, and he opened another app. His screen now showed the screen of Rhoda's new phone. She was booking a car. It would be there in eight minutes. Ah. Smart. Rhoda changed the pickup location to another street, one bordering a small park. Somewhere for her to hide while waiting.
No hurry. Bedlam Boy would find her when he was ready. He wanted Rhoda to be looking over her shoulder for a good while longer.
The Boy let himself out of the flat, closing the door behind him. He walked to the gate, whistling. When he turned onto the road, he stopped for a moment, turning first left, then right, before following the route Rhoda had taken, albeit in no particular hurry.
"Coming," he whispered, "ready or not."
Chapter Seventeen
On her twenty-second day in Paris, Rhoda called Winter.
It was thirty-three days since Tom Lewis came back from the dead.
Rhoda spent the first twenty-four hours getting as far away from Crouch End as possible. While waiting behind a hedge for the Uber to arrive, she stripped off her pyjamas, replacing them with jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, convinced Tom's ghost would materialise any moment, and kill her. In the back of the car, looking through the rear window, and seeing no one in pursuit, her rational mind broke through the internal shrieking of her superstitious subconscious.
What kind of ghost has breath you can feel on your face? Breath you can smell, too. And his hand was real enough. He's alive. Tom Lewis is alive.
Rhoda had never asked Winter about the night of the fire. She didn't want to know. But what remained of the Lewis house in Richmond stood out like a rotten black tooth. It was one reason for moving north of the river, so she never saw that street again. But she couldn't avoid the news. Winter slapped a newspaper into Marty's hand months later. "Lucky you. You don't have to finish the job. The kid's dead." Rhoda hadn't been able to avoid the headline: Lewis boy dies in hospital, after entire family executed in suspected crime feud.
But he wasn't dead. The headline lied. Tom Lewis was coming after her. He had a list. And hers was the next name on it.
Rhoda used a cheap French burner phone to call Winter, blocking the number. She took the Metro to Gare du Nord and called from there. Since fleeing London, she preferred to be in busy public places. She struggled to sleep, never staying in the same hotel for longer than a night.
"Rhoda? Where are you?" Winter sounded displeased. Rhoda was glad of the three hundred miles and body of water between them.
"Away. I'm not telling you where."
"Like hell you aren't. Get over to the house."
"No."
The silence that followed meant she'd crossed a line. When Winter went quiet, bad things followed. She didn't wait for him to respond. "Did you read my email?"
The silence deepened. He had read it, then. Since working for Winter, Rhoda kept notes of dates, locations, names. Her written confession wouldn't be enough to destroy his organisation, but the attached audio recording from her phone would put him in prison for life.
Winter didn't scare her like Tom Lewis, or—what had he called himself?—Bedlam Boy. She had taken a circuitous route to Paris, heading across France by train towards Italy before doubling back by bus, cash only, staying in cheap guesthouses. On arrival in the French capital, eight days after leaving home, she dared to hope she might be safe. On her seventh night in Paris, she saw him. Or she thought she did.
She was waiting for a train in Glacière station along with a knot of tourists and commuters. A bruised purple sky pressed against the glass roof and hanging lamps cast pools of light on the reflective floor. The eastbound train to Nation arrived on the far track. When it pulled away, its passengers making their way to the exit, she registered one figure on the platform opposite. Before looking up from her copy of Le Monde, she knew. There was an awful inevitability about it.
Even that first quick look was enough. A voice in the darkness might have been anyone, but she'd watched Tom Lewis grow up. Now the boy had become a man. He was tall. Bulky, too. His physical presence washed across her in a wave of fear. Inch by inch, her head moved to face him again. Rhoda wanted to close her eyes, but didn't dare. If she did, she was half-convinced he would be standing in front of her when she opened them again.
The figure on the opposite platform maintained a preternatural stillness. Big hands hung by his sides. He wore jeans and a white shirt, with a light brown jacket. On his head—and Rhoda only just prevented herself from giggling when she saw it—was a black beret. If she laughed, she might not stop.
The train approached with the usual metallic scream. Her body moved heavily, limbs clumsy, thoughts treacled to sludge. Then the clanking carriages, lit butter yellow inside, broke the physical connection between her and Tom. She jerked forward, almost falling through the doors. Rhoda sat facing front and told herself not to turn her head. But she had to. If he was still there, at least it meant he wasn't sprinting across the bridge to board her train. And maybe it wasn't Tom, just some tired Parisian on their way home. So she looked. And, as soon as she did, the man on the other platform removed his beret to show Rhoda an angry red ridge of scarring where, twenty years earlier, Marty Nicolson shot him.
Tom Lewis smiled at her.
"No. No. No." Rhoda put her face in her hands as the train jolted into motion.
After that night, she started changing hotels daily. She stuck to crowds when outside and kept moving. The anonymous millions gave the illusion of safety, but she knew it for an illusion. She began to think the creature following her wasn't human. She picked up a cheap rosary, but her belief in her supernatural pursuer was stronger than faith in an omniscient deity.
Winter was still talking. Rhoda watched hundreds of passing faces in Gare du Nord, her eyes flitting from one to the next, checking. Winter's words, soaked in menace even through the phone speaker, might as well have been an ancient language she'd never learned. His tone suggested he was threatening her. Rhoda screwed her eyes up, shook her head, and interrupted him.
"It doesn't matter what you say, Winter. I'm not about to email my confession to the police. There's something else. Something I need to tell you."
Since that night on the Metro, she had seen Tom—Bedlam Boy—twice.
For more than a week after the Metro sighting, she moved from hotel to hotel, sometimes more than once a day, using back exits where possible. She dyed her greying hair jet black and took to wearing headscarves. She replaced her clothes, choosing pastel colours that didn't suit her. Her shoes were the only items she didn't change - she was doing a lot of walking. She almost always wore her trainers, the most comfortable shoes she owned. Not wanting to admit she only wore them in case she needed to run.
She was crossing a road when a bicycle swerved to avoid her, its rider ringing the bell furiously.
"Sorry. Sorry." She stepped back onto the pavement. "Désolée. Excusez-moi."
"Pah!" A Parisian response. As the cyclist pedalled away, he looked back at her and she gasped, dropping her shopping bag and smashing the wine bottle inside. A bearded man with short, teak-brown hair. Unmistakable dark green eyes. Rhoda was left shaking and sobbing.
Three nights after that, she had been buying vodka in a twenty-four-hour shop. While she paid, a drunk man stumbled past, leaning against the shop window, singing incoherently, and laughing. He was dressed like an ageing skateboarder; black trainers, black trousers, white T-shirt, black baseball cap over his dirty long blonde hair. The shopkeeper banged on the glass, and the drunk held up a hand in apology, pushing himself away, staggering a few steps forward, then back again. He was big. Really big. And the song lyrics; not French. English.
The Forger & the Traitor Page 7