No gypsy slut nor doxy, shall win my Mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, the stars I'll fight, the fray will well become me
Rhoda watched the drunk spin and twist, wheel, and caper, steadying himself against bins, walls, or parked cars. She stood at the shop counter for five minutes after he was out of sight, muttering to herself. The shopkeeper didn't bother to hide his relief when she left.
Back in the hotel room, she sat on the thin mattress and drank warm vodka straight from the bottle until she passed out.
"Well? What do you bloody want, then?"
Rhoda had drifted off into her own thoughts again. Winter's voice brought her back to the Gare du Nord. She was doing this more and more, allowing her thoughts to become as real as the ground beneath her feet, the sounds and smells of the travellers in the echoing space, the plastic phone pressed against her ear.
"It's Tom Lewis."
"Who?"
"You know who." Even Winter, with his reputation, hadn't killed so many people that he'd forget slaughtering an entire family.
"He's dead, Rhoda."
"No, Winter, he's not. Or maybe he is." She laughed, smothering the sound when it threatened to get out of control. "I don't know. But he came to see me. He told me he killed Marty. He has a list. I imagine your name is on it. But I'm next."
"You've lost your mind. He's dead. They're all dead."
"Maybe. But I saw him, Winter. He spoke to me. He's playing with me now. He might kill me next week, or next month. But he'll do it. And he'll kill you, too. He's not human. He's…" She fished for a word, eventually snagging a memory from her native language. "He's a bauk."
"A what?"
Rhoda had last heard that word sitting at her grandmother's feet back in Serbia as a child. "Bauk," she repeated. "Demon." She remembered what he had called himself. "Bedlam Boy."
"Get a grip, Rhoda. I'll look into this Tom Lewis nonsense, all right? Call me back in a few days."
Something had changed in Winter's voice. She put the phone in her bag. She needed a drink.
In the kitchen of a six-million pound steel, glass, and brick house in Elstree, Winter took out a calfskin wallet and removed a piece of paper, unfolding it on the quartz worktop. He stared at the words until it was too dark to make them out.
Bedlam Boy is coming.
Chapter Eighteen
Early October, and an Indian summer kept the Paris streets busy well into the evening. At the end of each unseasonably warm day, the locals smiled, or rolled their eyes, at tourists shivering in shirtsleeves and thin dresses.
Friday night arrived cloudless and cold, with a full moon.
Rhoda was drunk. She had never been more than a casual drinker, but since seeing Tom Lewis on the Metro platform she carried bottles of vodka in her handbag. A few days of experimentation and she could maintain a level of inebriation that allowed her to function without drawing attention to herself. It numbed the fear. It was still there, but more like a persistent toothache than a twisting blade in her gut.
She stayed out every night until the streets got too quiet for comfort, then headed back to the latest hotel. Today's choice was a last-minute cancellation in a four-star near the Eiffel Tower, so she kept the famous landmark in sight as she hovered close to the tourists, taking a gulp from her bottle every few minutes.
It didn't take much for that numb fear to flare up into something more urgent. A glimpse of anyone over six feet tall would dry her mouth in an instant, and it took hours to regain her equilibrium.
The bauk constantly occupied her thoughts. Her superstitious grandmother spoke of demonic creatures as matter-of-factly as she did members of the family. Baka Ana, knitting in the corner while Rhoda sat at her feet, told her bauks lived in dark places like caves or abandoned houses. The creatures loved the shadows, avoiding light and noise. The thing in her bedroom had appeared in utter darkness and, since then, only haunted her at night. Rhoda felt safer during the day. By spending her evenings in noisy crowds and public places, she hoped she might spot him coming, at least.
Tonight, she circled the Fontaine Des Quatre Parties Des Monde for over an hour, as visitors came and went. Her constant pacing, pausing to sit at every point of the compass, allowed her to watch for the bauk. This end of the Marco Polo garden abutted well-lit streets, giving her plenty of options if she needed to run. She spent time by the fountains most evenings. She didn't know what the statues represented - four women holding the world aloft; horses plunging through the water; dolphins and turtles. The energy and power of the tableau captivated Rhoda with its optimism, its celebration of life. It didn't make her happy. Nothing did anymore. But it distracted her. Sometimes, she forgot what was coming for a minute at a time.
She was sitting on the edge, trailing her hand in the freezing water, staying close to a loud, laughing group of Canadian tourists, when she saw him. The light from the lampposts on either side of the fountain didn't quite reach the line of trees beyond, but passing cars lit the watching figure from behind. He wore a hooded top, and his sizeable frame looked even bulkier.
Rhoda got to her feet, squinting. It might not be him. But he stood so still, as still as the bronze figures in the fountain. She looked left and right, then back at the hooded man. It could be anyone. She fumbled in her bag for the vodka. Someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"Aaagh!" Rhoda scrambled backwards to get away, before registering the shocked expression on the woman who had touched her.
"Jeez, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, ma'am. Are you okay?"
Rhoda nodded, coughing to prevent her body from unleashing a scream. "I'm fine. Fine. You surprised me, that's all."
"We're visiting from Toronto. A European tour. Paris is a beautiful city, right?"
"Right." Rhoda peered back at the trees. The figure had gone. She looked up and down the avenue. Nothing. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
The woman held something towards her. A piece of paper. No, a ticket. "One of our friends is ill. We have a spare ticket to the Montparnasse Tower. You get an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower from up there. Very romantic. Seems a shame to waste a ticket. I wondered if you'd like it?"
Rhoda scanned the area for signs of the bauk. Gone. If he had ever been there. She looked at the tourists. There were two more couples besides those offering her the ticket, all in their twenties. Wholesome, young, beautiful, their entire lives in front of them. They laughed loudly and often. And the Montparnasse Tower was a busy tourist spot. She would be safe there. She forced a smile onto her face and wondered if they could smell the alcohol on her breath.
"I'd love it. Thank you. That's so kind. Are you going now?"
"Yes, we are. Wanna tag along?"
Rhoda hoped she didn't look as haggard as she felt. "That would be lovely. Thank you."
"Hey, it's our pleasure. I love your accent. Where are you from? London? What's your name? I'm Aileen."
The vodka bottle was empty. Rhoda left it on the stone lip of the fountain and followed her new friends.
The Canadians talked non-stop on the walk to the tower and didn't stop until the lift doors opened at the top floor. They climbed steps onto a busy rooftop with seating areas, coin-operated telescopes and a bar, surrounded by high glass safety panels.
Aileen winked, and said, "I think you'll love it up here, Rhoda. It's romantic, isn't it?" Rhoda found it strange, even insensitive, that the woman put such a heavy emphasis on the word romantic. To all appearances, she was a single woman, alone in Paris. In her dirty trainers, leggings, jumper and jacket, she hardly glowed with joi de vivre. But Aileen's smile had been positively conspiratorial. Rhoda thanked them again and left to explore on her own.
She wanted a drink. For the price of one glass of champagne here, she could buy a bottle of supermarché vodka later. She circled the rooftop in the same way that she'd circled the fountain, checking every big male, making sure the bauk hadn't followed her. The open area was dimly lit, but noisy with people. He was
n't here. Fresh groups spilled out of the lifts. Rhoda was surrounded by tourists. She relaxed fractionally.
She ended up on the opposite side to the Eiffel Tower. Fewer people lingered to admire the city from here. They wanted photos with the most famous building in Paris as the backdrop. Rhoda stared out towards the Seine, not really registering the view. Her thoughts returned to the Lewis family.
The bauk asked if she had lived a good life. He knew the answer, as did she. Rhoda had made bad choices. Helping Winter, twenty years ago, might have been the worst choice of all. But she'd only agreed to help when Winter swore he wouldn't hurt Tom. No, Rhoda realised, that was her worst choice. Choosing to believe him. The blood of that child on her hands. Or whatever that child had become.
A shape moved closer in the reflective glass between her and the Parisian night.
"Hey." The Canadian woman again. Aileen. She held one of the overpriced champagnes in one hand. Her expression looked familiar. A brow furrowed in concern, a warm smile, body language friendly and unthreatening. Oh. That was why Rhoda recognised it. She wore the same expression when approaching candidates for Winter. In Aileen's case, it was genuine.
The Canadian offered her a tissue. Rhoda realised she'd been crying. The woman stood next to her for a while without speaking, while she blew her nose and wiped her face. Then she leaned closer and put a hand on her upper arm.
"Rhoda, I shouldn't do this, shouldn't spoil the surprise, but you seem so sad."
"Surprise?"
Aileen looked over her shoulder. "Yes. Please don't tell him I said anything. I just wanted you to know it's okay. Better than okay. Between you and your boyfriend, I mean."
"My boyfriend?" Rhoda glanced past Aileen to the stairs leading down to the lifts. She didn't want to be stuck two hundred metres up with a lunatic.
"Yes. Our friend isn't really sick. Your boyfriend gave us the ticket. He's about to propose. He flew out secretly. It's so romantic, I could die. He'll be here any minute. Please, please, please, act surprised. God, I'm terrible at keeping my mouth shut. You're not mad at me, are you?"
"My boyfriend?" Rhoda repeated. She saw the future, visualising Aileen's next words as if they were printed on a ribbon spooling out of her mouth. If she got hold of the ribbon, stuffed the words back, the future might change.
Aileen must have seen something in Rhoda's eyes she didn't like. She backed up in a hurry, stumbling in her haste to get out of range.
"Got to go. Good luck. Tom seems like a lovely guy."
Rhoda didn't reply. She was back in Crouch End, the fear consuming her. She scanned the faces again. No Tom. Tourists, mostly couples, arms around each other, whispering, laughing, kissing. A maintenance guy in a hard hat fixing the machine that promised Le Plus Haut Selfie de Paris! The bar staff, nearing the end of their shifts, looked bored. She should leave. Now.
Then the maintenance guy turned around, and everything stopped.
The bauk.
Chapter Nineteen
Bedlam Boy attached Rhoda's old phone to the selfie photo machine. When he'd secured it, he tapped on the camera icon, selected video, and started recording.
In a moment of satisfying synchronicity, he turned to Rhoda at the exact moment she saw him.
The anger that burned through his body felt different this time. Marty Nicholson was a would-be thug, willing to point a loaded gun at a twelve-year-old boy's head and pull the trigger. Tom Lewis had seen the agony of indecision crystallise into action, as Marty chose the path that would lead to his own death twenty years later.
Rhoda Ilích was different. Rhoda had killed no one. Not directly. Her flat contained no weapons other than a can of pepper spray. But the Traitor's transgressions outweighed those of the Forger's.
Tom Lewis grew up with Rhoda as a second mother. When he fell and scraped his knee, Rhoda fetched the antiseptic cream and plasters. She did most of the cooking, too. Sunday night meant a rich stew, the precise ingredients of which Rhoda never divulged. Years later, walking back to the latest bedsit after a day's manual labour, Tom would stop short, catching the faintest scent of caramelised onions, garlic and herbs. For a moment he was back in the family kitchen, handing Auntie Rhoda vegetables to peel and chop.
Twelve-year-olds are quick to pick up on adult problems. Weeks before the night of his parents' execution, Tom sensed Rhoda withdrawing. For months, an uncomfortable gulf opened between her and his mother as they discussed domestic matters as if nothing were wrong. His mother acted colder, and Rhoda withdrew, becoming distant. For the boy who watched and listened as the unspoken tension increased, it was a time of turmoil. Relationships he thought would last forever were in danger of failing.
Rhoda betrayed them. That was the terrible, unforgivable truth. But Tom could have stopped it.
Biking home from school one afternoon, Tom took his turn to buy cigarettes from the newsagents. Harry bought the last pack, so they could crouch behind the concrete hillocks of the skatepark, sucking in hot sandpaper breaths and trying not to be the first to cough. Tom hated the taste, but that wasn't really the point of the ritual.
He left his bike with Harry and walked across the road to the row of shops; two-and-a-half miles from home, a part of London he rarely visited. Everyone at school knew the newsagent there sold cigarettes to schoolkids. Booze, too.
His voice hadn't yet broken, so Tom cultivated a harsh rasp that made him sound like a stroke victim with a sore throat. The middle-aged Indian man behind the counter had to ask him to repeat himself. When Tom did so, his voice emerged as a clear, piping treble. His face went red. The shopkeeper handed over the contraband without comment. Coming out of the shop, Tom stuffed his hands in his pockets and hurried back to his friend. As he passed the cafe next door, he slowed, then stopped, peered through the glass. A man in a suit, sitting in a booth at the back, talking to a woman wearing a headscarf. Something about the way the woman's head moved. Rhoda. He waited until he was sure. Rhoda had told him she was meeting a girlfriend to go shopping, not drinking coffee with a serious-looking man in a suit. A boyfriend? Tom's stomach tightened at the thought. If Rhoda got married, would she leave them? He would be thirteen in a few months, practically an adult, but the thought of Rhoda going made him pout like a toddler. He swallowed hard. But, looking at the man, his hard, fixed countenance, pale blue eyes as devoid of expression as a lizard, Tom surmised this was no romantic tryst. This was business. What kind of business?
Tom didn't tell his parents. He kept Rhoda's secret. What harm could come of it?
Less than a week later, his mother was dead, burned alive after watching her husband die. And the man with the pale blue eyes watched it all with the same disinterested expression. Tom could have stopped it. If he hadn't been loyal to Auntie Rhoda. He could have stopped it.
He was responsible for his parents' deaths. Now Bedlam Boy would avenge them.
A light breeze carrying an autumnal chill whipped across the roof of the Montparnasse Tower, causing couples to huddle together, or solitary tourists to pull jackets over their shoulders and shiver. Rhoda didn't shiver. She looked straight at the Boy as he approached, the trapped animal glaze in her eyes. She sank into her terror, leaving no hope in her expression.
When he took her by the hand and led her away from the glass barriers, she complied wordlessly. The Canadian woman looked on, unsure how to react.
"He promised me he wouldn't hurt you," said Rhoda, her voice quiet and tired. "I would never have done it otherwise."
Her voice trailed away. She looked up into his face. "All grown up, Tommy."
Bedlam Boy fought an urge to correct her. No one had called him Tommy for over two decades. A dead name for a dead boy.
Rhoda squeezed his hand. "It was no place for a child. And she wanted to bring you into the business. Your father..." Rhoda stared through him. "Your father did as he was told. I didn't want that for you. I tried... I tried..."
Rhoda laughed. The wind lifted the cold, shrill sound away from the to
wer, thinning it further as it blew across the Parisian rooftops, losing coherence until it became a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Tommy."
Rhoda dropped the Boy's hand. "I'm ready."
This wasn't how Bedlam Boy had imagined it. During the months of preparation, the nights following Rhoda around London, as she picked up desperate young women and men, delivering them into slavery, he'd never imagined this.
He saw no fear now, no remorse, no emotion. Just emptiness. So be it. He twisted Rhoda to face away from him, then gripped her body with two hands, his left hand bunching up the material of her sweatshirt at the neck, his right twisting the waistband of her jogging bottoms to get a secure grip.
She offered no resistance as he lifted her over his head. She had been such a solid presence in his life for so long, it surprised him how insubstantial she was when he hoisted her into the air.
Bedlam Boy had studied videos of sudden, unexpected violence in public places. A fight breaking out without warning, a gun drawn at a football game in America, a man producing a machete in a bar. He didn't care about the perpetrators of these acts. Who knew what drove them to breaking point? It was those around them that the Boy watched. He needed to know how people reacted in an unexpected crisis. How fast they responded, what their instinctive first reaction was likely to be. And he found that, in almost every case, people followed predictable patterns of behaviour. The first stage was acknowledgement. Something was happening that shouldn't be happening. Conventional reality was interrupted. Conversations stopped, heads turned. The possible threat was evaluated. Stage two was frozen shock. If the threat was great enough, such as the appearance of a semi-automatic weapon, stage two moved to stage three: fight or flight. Bedlam Boy knew that flight was, by far, the most likely outcome. Oddly, the more people there were, the slimmer the chances anyone chose to fight. If a man draws a gun in a bar with six people in it, there's a ten to fifteen percent chance someone will try to take it from him. Make that sixty people, and the odds drop to less than one percent. The behaviour of crowds is comfortingly predictable.
The Forger & the Traitor Page 8