by Tom Hoyle
Adam gave a weary smile from his train as it slowly pulled away.
She showed him the broken clasp on the case. Broken with a tent hammer.
Adam held up a large envelope in one hand and his backpack in the other.
Cassie, lips tight and fists clenched, shrieked and yelled at Adam’s train window as it slid away down the track. The people near her backed away, confused and frightened.
Adam put the envelope in his bag. Inside was £1,000 in fifties and twenties. Cassie was not worried by the loss of the money. “Money is just paper,” Coron would say, “and we can always get more.” She was more worried by the loss of her weapon, now in Adam’s backpack. But she was most worried by what Coron’s reaction would be.
Not only did Adam live, but he now had a gun.
Megan looked on, realizing that something strange and dark had happened.
Adam was light-headed as he turned to Leo and sighed. I’m a thirteen-year-old boy killer with a gun, he thought. Not that he knew how to use it; Adam imagined waving it, looking threatening. They wouldn’t know he was frightened by its cold, noisy, flesh-tearing potential. Once he was home safely he would drop it in the river, or hide it in the rubbish.
Home. I’ll be safe soon, he thought. They don’t know who I am or where I live. It will all be over soon.
Back on the platform, Cassie—Viper—watched the train amble away down the track to London. “You don’t know who or what you’re dealing with,” she muttered.
16
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2013
“What! How?” Coron smashed his fist into his desk, then held his head in his hands. “The Master will make me suffer for this.” He paused. “Someone has to pay—someone will have to be sacrificed.”
Viper, Cobra and Asp stood in front of Coron. They were no longer three relaxed festival goers. “Cassie,” “Keenan” and “Sofia” were now terrified servants. They knew what Coron could do. Fear and love of him were woven together in their minds.
“Where is Python’s body?” Coron murmured.
Cobra, suddenly looking younger than his fifteen years, spoke first. “Marcia collected it when she picked us up. It’s in the trunk of the car. We carried it from the Hill of Sacrifice to the lane on the far side.”
“Sacrifice! Sacrifice? There will be sacrifice, believe me. Take the body downstairs,” said Coron coldly. “Python failed me—and he failed the Master. Leave his body for us all to see. And he may yet be more use in death than he was in life.” Coron looked at his hands, red from thumping the table. “How did this happen? Whose fault was it?”
“The Traitor appeared, Lord Coron.” Cobra knew this news would not calm the situation: the Traitor was hated almost as much as the Imposter. “He came out of the darkness.”
“What? I will have to deal with him myself!” Coron roared. “How could this happen? How?”
The room was silent again. Then a knock at the door. A figure half appeared.
Coron shouted: “I will kill anyone who interrupts me. Go!” Then he turned to the children. “I have been interrupted enough. Why have you failed me?”
The three looked at the floor.
“I want you to undo what you have done. Bring back Python, and kill . . .” Coron could hardly bring himself to say the name, “. . . kill Adam. The fact that he again escapes shows that he is the one.”
Madness coursed through Coron. His mind had no limits. Insanity energized him, freed him from petty logic. He continued. “Go on! Reverse time, and make it different.” The Master would make him suffer. Coron cultivated his madness so that he could hide inside it.
Asp, who was fifteen, but looked more than a year younger than the other two, decided to speak. “There was nothing we could do.”
“Nothing? Nothing? Nothing will come of nothing.” Coron laughed hysterically for about fifteen seconds. “Nothing? I want to know who was responsible.”
“I can tell you, my lord Coron,” Viper said. “It was Asp. She should have stayed with the girl, and I should have gone with Adam. It only went wrong when she got involved.”
Asp frowned and turned. “But you said—”
“I think that she is not truly . . . not truly one of us,” said Viper.
“My lord, I would do anything . . .” started Asp.
Coron raised his palm slowly and calmly. “Viper, what you say is a strange and dreadful thing. But I have long thought we had another traitor in the camp. A dog waiting to bite us. Someone who is not what they seem.” Ideas were quickly forming in his mind; unconnected links were fusing. Coron whispered, “It is the only way to explain the failure. There must be another traitor.”
Yes, he thought. Another virus to be eliminated.
Asp whimpered, “It isn’t true. Look at my head. Look—I was hit.”
Cobra spoke now, clearly, authoritatively. “I too had my doubts about Asp. I feared the truth. I think she enjoyed the world out there.”
Coron put his hands together and pressed them to his chin. “Asp. Asp. If you confess, you will be shown mercy.”
Asp felt that she was in a cave—a damp, bare and isolated hole. She thought of her time at the festival. They had all enjoyed it, hadn’t they? But she had done wrong. Coron would save her. He would show mercy. She looked at Coron. “Yes, I did take some enjoyment from the world.”
“I knew it,” said Coron. “How much?”
“Some.” She thought again. “More than a bit.”
“I see. And you worked with the Traitor?”
“No,” she said. “That isn’t true. I didn’t do that.”
“Asp, my dear, dear child—” he smiled slightly—“it will help if you confess. It will make things less . . . ugly.”
Asp thought hard. She was unsure what to say. The lie would help, surely. Coron was always right, but she had to help herself. Just this once.
She took a risk. “Yes,” she said, nervously and hopefully. “I sort of worked with him.”
Coron relaxed. “And you loved him?”
This is working, Asp thought. “No. Not that. Not like I love you.”
“And you went to him?”
“No!”
Coron stood up and approached Asp. He stroked her hair, then held her face with both hands. He now saw only treachery. To Coron, her denials were proof of how twisted she was. “Beautiful and wicked Asp. Clever Asp. How you have disappointed us.” He squeezed tighter; Asp found it hard to breathe. “Why? Why? Why? Why?” he repeated. She was desperate for breath now, but dared not reach out to Coron; to push him away would be a terrible thing.
Still gripping tight—I need to breathe, thought Asp—Coron told Cobra and Viper to take hold of her. Then he let go. Asp gulped in wonderful air.
“I want you to help me take Asp up to Dorm Thirteen,” Coron said. “Where she will stay. Permanently.”
“But . . .”—NO!—“You said there would be mercy,” she whispered.
Coron put his finger to her lips. “Shhh.” He paused. “God will show mercy when you meet him.” The hint of a laugh. “And I may offer you mercy too.”
Asp was dragged through corridors and up flights of stairs by the older two. She cried and begged; she struggled and shook.
Surely this is not going to happen, she thought.
All too soon they arrived at a white door. The number thirteen was painted on it in coarse, blotchy black paint.
She had never seen inside.
Coron opened the door.
It is going to happen, she realized.
The square room had no windows and was empty apart from a light sunk into the ceiling. Three small circular grilles were visible on each of the walls.
She knew what happened in Dorm Thirteen. She had heard from others.
Asp was thrown in. Even now, she thought, Coron might change his mind.
“A little mercy,” Coron said, and Asp’s heart leaped. Coron pulled something from behind him, from his belt. “Here—for you.”
He threw a smal
l gun to the far end of the room, beyond Asp.
“There is one bullet in the chamber. You may use it. Or you can stay here permanently.”
He shut the door. Click. It was locked.
As Coron, Viper and Cobra walked back down the stairs, they heard beating on the thick door and a faint, dreadful, desperate wail.
“Good,” said Coron. “Now we can turn our attention to Adam.”
Viper and Cobra nodded and smiled.
17
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, TO TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2013
Adam knelt by the side of his bed, curtains closed, door locked. Set out in front of him was a gun and £1,000 in notes—the contents of the case taken from the festival.
The death was imprinted on his every thought, like a water-mark running through everything in the world. How did I get in this position? (I killed someone.) Why didn’t I drop the knife? (I killed someone.) How will I tell the police? (I killed someone.) How will I tell my parents?
He poked the gun with his finger as if it was an animal that would bite. Then he picked it up. It was smaller than he imagined, not much more than seven inches by five, and lighter—it weighed about as much as a big block of cheese. It was also colder than he’d expected. Icy cold.
Now that he had it, he was reluctant to let it go. What if they knew where he lived? He might have to defend himself and his parents. But he had no idea how to use a gun. Did he just pull the trigger? He had heard the expression safety catch in films. Would it be loud? He didn’t even know if it was loaded.
Adam saw the word Walther at the bottom of the handle, just below his little finger. It sounded vaguely familiar, probably from a film. Folding his duvet over gun and money, he pulled his laptop across from his desk.
He typed in some keywords. After a few minutes he understood.
“Oh my God,” whispered Adam. It held lots of bullets. In films and songs guns often had glamour, but Adam felt depressed and desperate. His natural inclination was still to tell his parents and go to the police. He had killed in self-defense, surely. Self-defense isn’t murder, is it? He hadn’t really decided to kill. Or had he?
His mum’s voice came through the door. “Adam, I can see your light on. After the weekend you’ve had you need to get some sleep. I think I’ll take your computer away.” She tried the locked door. “Adam, are you on Facebook again?”
Adam silently took the gun and money and put them under his bed, then went to the door, computer in hand. “Sorry, Mum.”
“Adam, is everything okay? You don’t look your usual self.”
This was the moment. He could tell her now.
Adam let the moment slide away until it was out of reach. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone trying to give the smallest hint that he was not.
Before he climbed into bed, Adam hid the gun again, submerging it in a big tub of Legos that he hadn’t opened in years. Then he pulled back the curtains for a glance at Megan’s house.
He couldn’t see clearly in the darkness, but Megan was looking at his house too. She knew that something strange had happened, and tomorrow would insist on understanding what it was. She grabbed her phone and quickly sent a text: “c u tomoz. Luv m.”
Less than a minute later her phone pinged: “Soz for way things are. C u. Love ad.”
She smiled. He had written love in full. How great.
The next morning, Adam was in the shed near the bushes at the bottom of his garden when Megan passed by. She saw a ghost-like figure through the dusty window: Adam.
“Here we go,” Adam muttered.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, the door squeaking as she opened it.
“Um, looking for some nails.”
“Why?” Megan knew it was a lie. Nails? How ridiculous.
“Er, to mend the fence,” he said unconvincingly. If only he could lie better than this.
“Mend the fence?” she said, hands on hips. “Adam, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Adam, what happened at the festival? I can’t think of anything else; I want to know. Why was there red on your hands?” Megan avoided saying blood. “I know you were in a fight.”
“Nothing. Don’t know.”
In frustration and with a sudden spike of anger, Megan raised her voice: “I’ve been grounded for not getting back on time at the festival, but I still came over here to look for you and now all you can do is lie. We’ve never had secrets before. What’s changed?”
“I’m not lying.” Adam shrugged. He hated being like this, but wanted to protect her.
Then Megan stepped forward and slapped him, hard. His ear, neck and cheek stung. “You liar!” she shouted. “You bloody liar! Why won’t you tell me?” She looked as if she was about to strike again.
“Meg. I can’t. And don’t shout,” Adam said, gesturing for her to keep quiet.
“Adam,” she said, more quietly, “who is your best friend?”
“Oh, Meg. Please don’t do this to me. You know that it’s you.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
Adam was torn by indecision. He didn’t want to tell Megan, but he had to tell someone. The secret burned within him like a fiery coal.
Adam reached up and pulled down a slightly rusty Quality Street tin from the shelf. He showed Megan what he had hidden inside: £1,000. She was wide-eyed, then frowned. He whispered to her about the gun and the suitcase.
Megan went pale; her hands shook.
But a worse truth had to be told. Adam beckoned her to sit down on the dusty floor, below window height. Then he began whispering, coldly detached from the story, telling it as if it was a film he had seen, as if he was talking about someone else. He told it in order. At the very end he had to say the awful words: “He fell on the knife. He was trying to kill me. But I killed him.”
Megan stared.
“Meg, did you hear me? I’ve killed someone.”
They looked at one another.
“There’s no doubt. There was blood, and he fell down. And the knife went right in. Meg—I didn’t push it, honestly I didn’t. I would do anything to take that moment back.”
Megan had not interrupted once. Now she said just two words: “Oh no.”
“Meg, I’m a murderer. My whole life is ruined.”
Adam then watched her cry for about half a minute. He desperately wanted to hug her. Surprisingly, she didn’t criticize or ask questions; she didn’t respond at all as an adult would. And as soon as her tears stopped, she was practical, sensible, serious: “You have to tell your parents and go to the police. It was self-defense. They were going to kill you. These people might come back. What are you going to do then? Shoot them all?”
He looked deep into her blue eyes. “Okay. I’ll tell my parents this evening.” And with his hand on her shoulder, the words came out very formally: “Meg . . . thank you.”
Megan twisted around so that she faced Adam, then touched the side of his head, above his stinging ear, now more like a caring adult than a girl, and gently pressed for several seconds. “Adam . . .” She paused again. “I’ll always be your friend.”
That evening, at about 9:45 p.m., Adam took the gun from the Lego tub, intending to explain everything to his parents. He knew that walking in with a gun in his hand would be an awful and life-changing moment, but then found he was so terrified about what would happen next that he couldn’t make an entrance at all.
A bit longer, just a bit longer, he thought.
A black Range Rover with four people in it swept along deserted country lanes. The people inside were silent, full of dreadful purpose. Scarred palms held the steering wheel; a woman in the passenger seat picked at her short nails; two teenagers sat in the back, flint-faced. Bony trees were lit for a time by headlights, then passed in a blur.
Adam sat in his room. 10:45 p.m. became 11:45 p.m.
Wheels spun quickly down a two-lane road, then even faster down a highway. London: fifteen miles. Exit at the next junction, said th
e sign.
Adam decided that at midnight he would knock on his parents’ bedroom door. That would give him fifteen more minutes of freedom.
Smaller roads, lined by houses and trees. The Range Rover stopped. The four people stepped out, all of them carrying backpacks.
Midnight came and went, and Adam still hadn’t spoken to his parents. Now it was 1:00 a.m., and he realized it would have to wait until tomorrow. It was too late. A few hours wouldn’t make any difference.
The four walked across a park. A voice came from the gloom. “Hey,” someone was calling. “Hey!” Three men emerged from what looked like a children’s playground. “Are you lost?” There was laughter. “Out for a walk?”
Coron responded, speaking into the darkness from under one of the lights that were strung along the path. “I think you should leave us alone.”
More laughter from the three potential muggers. “No, I think you should leave us alone.” The men jogged to the path, indistinct shadows vaguely lit by no more than a half-moon and the glow of the city. Arriving into the limited circle of light, one of the men spoke aggressively: “Hand everything over and no one will get hurt.”
Coron looked dismissive. He took a deep breath. “You have picked the wrong people.”
“We’re so, so scared,” mocked the tallest of the three. “You’ve just met the wrong people. Don’t try to be brave, Daddy.” He pulled a knife. “You’re pissing me off.”
Coron was calm. “Do you have bad dreams?”
“What?”
“Welcome to a nightmare.”
Coron grabbed one of the muggers; Marcia another. They were bundled to the floor, almost invisible in the darkness. There was scuffling, followed by five or six dull thuds. Then silence.
The remaining mugger, suddenly confused and wary, stared at Viper and Cobra. He saw that these teenagers were also calm. Why?
Viper spoke. “Thieves shouldn’t play with murderers.”
Murderers? What was this?
Coron and Marcia returned, surrounding the thief. Gripping the mugger’s head, Coron whispered in his ear, “Remember my name: Coron. Mention it.”