Thirteen

by Tom Hoyle

  “What? Who to? Who should I tell?” he stammered.

  “Our New God. You’re about to meet him.”

  At 2:00 a.m. Adam lay down on his bed. I’ll speak to Mum and Dad first thing in the morning, he thought. I know that they love me; it’ll be all right. He fell into an exhausted sleep. He would be awake within the hour.

  In the park, three young men were found dead the next morning. One, propped against a tree, had not died quickly.

  18

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013

  At 2:40 a.m. Coron, Marcia, Viper and Cobra reached Adam’s house.

  They had spent the previous morning in the gym preparing and rehearsing. Coron was both director and leader. He had over one hundred willing servants, but the Master had told him to be his avenging angel, just like the angel who had killed the firstborn in Egypt. The Master’s Angel. God’s Angel.

  Archangel Coron. Yes, that was his destiny.

  Coron said that the Traitor would be somewhere nearby, so they hoped for a second kill. “It will be one of the greatest nights in history if both are eliminated,” Coron had said to the assembly at the Old School House. But there was no one around to witness them striding down the path to Adam’s garden.

  They slipped through the bushes and toward the house in single file, a mere rustle of movement that was lost among other sounds that litter a night. Then backpacks were opened with clasps, rather than zippers, for silence. Four identical containers were pulled out and unscrewed. The smell of gasoline rose.

  The sweet smell of gasoline, thought Coron. The sweet smell of death. Leading to the sweeter smell of a burnt offering. An odor that would rise up to the Master—and to God.

  Viper and Cobra thought of past kills. Like hunters, they were greedy for another. But with Adam they wanted more. They wanted revenge; for him to be frightened and say please, stop; for him to hurt.

  Coron put his duplicate key into the back door. It wouldn’t go in fully. The original key was in the lock on the inside.

  Cobra stepped forward, pulling a small screwdriver from his backpack. If this didn’t work, he would break a window. But that was a coarse and noisy method. They were not common criminals.

  Ninety seconds later they were in.

  The four slipped through to the sitting room. Silence—apart from the usual tocks and buzzes that are common to every house. For two or three seconds the fridge rattled, then was still. Adam’s fish drifted around their tank, dumb witnesses to the four intruders.

  Coron spoke quietly, below a whisper: “Of all the people in the world, we are the most important. Nothing will happen tonight that is more significant than what we will do here.” He closed his eyes. “Master, we serve you.”

  An equally quiet response came back, not much more than the movement of lips: “We serve you, Coron; we serve the Master; and we serve the New God.”

  The four went in separate directions. Viper and Marcia splashed gasoline downstairs, while Coron and Cobra did upstairs.

  Glug. Glug. Gasoline was spilled, carefully, thoughtfully, arteries linking to veins. We are like artists, thought Viper as she poured spill after spill over the sofas. They pulled threads to weave in the most flammable material. Skilled work in the service of the Master.

  Coron and Cobra did the same on the stairs and landing. Quiet spurts of gas, soaking into carpet, seeping under doors, spreading like thin molasses.

  Finally, Coron reached Adam’s door.

  Coron had intended to stop there. But something stirred in his spirit. A desire to torment his victim.

  With his head pressing against the sign that said Adam’s Room, Coron pushed down the handle and opened the door.

  Even imposters must sleep, Coron thought. Even Adam must sleep.

  The smell of gasoline was strong now, and Adam was beginning to stir. Coron went forward three paces and quickly put his hand over Adam’s mouth and nose.

  Adam was drifting out of sleep, swimming up into the place where dreams blend with reality, where consciousness is seen above like ripples on the surface of a pool.

  Panic filled Adam the instant he realized he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think of anything else, just the need for oxygen. Then some air crept in, and with it a spasm of realization: there was a man here. Adam’s eyes sprang open. The guy from the festival—Keenan—was behind the man.

  Adam tried to scream, but a hand was clasped over his mouth. Nothing came out but a long and throaty “mmm” sound; spent air filled his lungs.

  The hand relaxed. Air. Gas, thought Adam.

  “Hello, Adam. I am the avenging angel, come to kill the firstborn of the millennium.”

  “Let me go,” Adam choked out. Predictable, natural, futile words.

  “No. I don’t think so. You are the thirteenth, and you are thirteen; if you become fourteen, you become a man, and if you become a man, then the world will not have the leader it needs. Me.”

  There was no strange look or mad tone. This man was not the Joker or the Green Goblin. There was nothing comic book about him. His words were blunt and simple, as if he thought they were obvious.

  Surely someone who spoke so calmly would have some sense of reason. So Adam said, “Please, I think you need help. If we could just think about this . . .”

  Another hand, slightly smaller and less abrasive, pushed hard into Adam’s face, forcing his lips against his teeth. Then Adam felt breathing on his ear. It was Cobra. “We are going to start the burning now, and it will continue for eternity.”

  Coron whispered again, standing up. “You see, fire is like an idea. It spreads slowly at first, but gathers pace and enthusiasm. Eventually it makes the world roar. I will make the world roar. I am the chosen one.”

  He pulled a packet of matches from his pocket. Adam could barely make out the box in the dark, but he heard the familiar rattle of the thin sticks inside.

  Cobra pushed his left hand hard into Adam’s throat, shoving and squeezing with the strength that hatred gives. His right hand held plastic cord-like handcuffs. “You will see death coming.” Adam felt his throat close.

  “Bind him,” said Coron. “We offer you as a burnt sacrifice to the Master.” Coron pulled out a match and rested its head against the side of the box.

  Cobra smiled and giggled.

  Then Coron lit the match and held it up in his left hand. A small flame flickered, a flame that would feast on gasoline.

  Suddenly a familiar voice, full of horror and confusion, came from the doorway: Adam’s dad. He shouted, “Oh my God—help—get out—Adam!”

  Adam saw Coron pull a gun from his inside pocket with his right hand.

  For an instant, all was still. The match burned unwavering in Coron’s left hand as he murmured, “Shhhh.”

  Before Adam realized what was happening, there was a snapping sound from the gun, followed by a thud as Adam’s dad staggered backward and fell to the ground. His dad made short gasping sounds: “Ad-am; Ad-am.”

  Adam twisted and writhed against Cobra’s grasp, desperate to get to his father.

  The match was now half-burned, still upright, without a tremble, between Coron’s fingers. Only a lunatic would have such conviction when faced with another’s death.

  Dark specks were appearing in front of Adam’s eyes. He was losing consciousness. Some specks became blotches. Cobra was dragging him out of bed and down to the floor to tie him up.

  Coron stepped into the hallway, put his foot on Adam’s dad and spat, “You protected Adam. You are also an enemy of the Master.” But the match had burned down into Coron’s fingers and gone out. Adam heard the scrape and fizz of a new flame.

  There was a bump as Adam hit the floor. Cobra readied his cuffs and glanced down to Adam’s hands. He stared: Adam was holding a gun—the gun from the metal case.

  It was harder for Adam to pull the trigger than he had anticipated, but almost immediately there was a loud cracking sound and Cobra breathed in and went rigid.

  Adam squeezed again an
d Cobra slumped on top of him.

  A lit match spiralled from Coron’s hand, over and over, perhaps eight times, the flame alternately growing and shrinking, until it hit the floor and a pool of fire illuminated him.

  Just like the devil, Adam thought as he raised the gun. Fiery and hellish. Lying on the floor, even with Cobra on his left side, he was able to look down the line of fire. He vaguely aimed for Coron’s torso and forced his finger to squeeze again. This time the gun was hard to keep still; it leaped back and up.

  The bullet cut through the air—whoosh—and impacted into Coron’s right arm, halfway between elbow and shoulder.

  Coron dropped his gun into the gathering flames.

  All the time dancing yellow was spreading along the lines of gas.

  Adam saw his mum in the smoke-filled hallway behind Coron, who turned. For an instant there was hesitation, then Coron rushed forward, hoisted his uninjured arm and punched her with a single blow, knocking her to the ground.

  Viper appeared at the top of the stairs. “There’s someone forcing the front door. Should we kill them?”

  Coron turned back toward Adam’s room, where smoke was now turning from mist to fog. Behind him flames hopped down the stairs step by step. He thought of the gun in Adam’s hand. Even in Coron’s mind, a thin line of logic tugged him toward self-preservation. “No. We must go.”

  When the flames reached the bottom of the stairs they spread out in six different directions, and the room was quickly ablaze.

  Adam went to his father and beat at the sparks on his pajama trousers. His mother was smothered by smoke; flames crept closer to her. He tugged—“Dad, please move!”—eliciting a small groan.

  Three figures left by the back door, one clutching his arm, and dashed through the garden; they coughed as they sprinted along the small path, each step taking them farther from the glimmering yellow of Adam’s house.

  Inside, smoke was filling Adam’s lungs. He pushed open the bathroom door: no fire—the tentacles of gas not having reached there—but smoke flooded in as Adam dragged his father next to the bath.

  The house began to crackle.

  Adam closed the bathroom door and ran to his mother. She coughed quietly. “Adam?”

  Adam began to drag her down the stairs through flame and smoke. It was useless. The carpet was on fire. She was too heavy and he felt faint. He leaned against the wall on the stairs, nudging a photo. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.

  Then he heard someone shouting, “Come on!”

  It was the teenager who had saved him before. Was Adam dreaming? Why was he here again?

  Again the same voice, shrieking with urgency: “Come on!”

  Flames lapped like waves as together they dragged Adam’s mother out. Heat embraced them. Piercing heat. Burning heat.

  They fell out of the back door, heaving for breath. Three or four neighbors had appeared, and there were shouts and calls for help. “Fire—we need help!” a man yelled into his cell phone.

  Awoken by the noise, Megan looked out the window. Seeing an orange glow and smoke painting itself against the darker night sky, she ran.

  Adam looked at the neighbors. “My dad! He’s still in there.” He started to go back.

  Someone held him. “You can’t go in there. You’ll kill yourself.”

  Staring at the house, Adam fought to get closer. “My dad!” He broke free and ran toward the door.

  The boy who had helped him pull out his mother blocked his way. “You’ll die, Adam!”

  “I’m getting my dad!” Adam kicked and screamed, but the older boy was strong. Precious seconds passed. Smoke billowed from windows and heat-reddened faces.

  “Let me go!” Adam shouted. “Let me in!”

  “You stay,” the boy said as he shoved Adam back, then ran into the black cloud that poured through the door.

  Confusion, noise, smoke, fire.

  Megan tore across the garden. “Adam! Adam!”

  Adam looked at the burning house, desperation smothering him, and roared and roared, an echo of the fire.

  Suddenly, the bathroom window was open, and through the smoke Adam saw one person holding another—dragging, desperately heaving toward the window.

  People looked around for something to break their fall. Nothing. There was nothing.

  Can’t someone do something? Smoke and flames were hungry for victims. Large snaps, like branches being torn in two. Thousands of hisses turned to small explosions.

  Adam’s father fell like a stone and, despite the efforts of a neighbor to catch him, crashed through a plastic garden table below. The boy let himself down as far as he could, then leaped, his fall becoming a roll as he hit the ground.

  Sparks fizzed and spun through the air.

  Adam’s dad was dragged across the grass like a heavy sack. Adam fought through the throng of neighbors and leaned close. His dad was making a noise at the back of his throat—a long thin wailing sound.

  Two medics ran from an ambulance and appeared around the side of the house.

  Much farther away, three shadowy figures ran toward a Range Rover.

  19

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013

  As paramedics rushed to Adam’s parents, neighbors tried to assist and reassure him—“Stand back. . . . Give them some air. . . . Don’t worry. . . .”—but the only comfort to Adam was Megan’s silent presence.

  The fire was a frenzied parasite, embracing and consuming all before it. Smoke poured from windows and seeped through tiles. Near the gutters, flames reached out like fingers trying to prise open the roof. Then there was a larger crash above the background of sizzling crackles as the fire leaped onto the top of the house, dancing in victory.

  Firemen arrived, calling into radios: “The building is well alight. Make pumps five.”

  Adam knelt next to his mother. Her blonde hair was singed black, her burned skin drawn tight beneath an oxygen mask. She looked at Adam, her eyes widening slightly, the closest she could come to a reassuring smile. Adam simply put his hand on hers. She would understand.

  Adam went to his father. The paramedic beside him was confused by the range of injuries, one of which was clearly a gunshot. The boy who’d rescued Adam was saying something that sounded very grown-up: “. . . isn’t life-threatening if pressure is applied . . . bullet passed through . . .”

  Adam knelt again. “Come on, Dad. You’ll be fine,” he said, but he wanted to hug his father instead of speaking to him. Megan put her arm around Adam’s shoulder as he stood up.

  Adam looked at the boy who had entered the building, the boy who had helped his parents, the boy who had saved him twice. “Thank you. I don’t know who you are, but thank you so much.”

  More paramedics arrived. Two of them ran straight to Adam’s father. “We need to get him to the hospital immediately. Get a stretcher. Now.”

  At the same time, three police officers jogged in: two women from the front of the house and a man who came up the garden from the bushes and the path. “You must clear this garden now,” ordered one of the women. “Move out and stand back. This building is not safe.”

  The house blazed, casting a hot yellow glow over everyone.

  Adam vaguely recognized the policeman. He had seen him at the station.

  “Your parents will be fine,” the officer said in the way that adults do to children. “It’s Adam, isn’t it? My name is Chief Inspector Hatfield.” He turned to the young man. There was surprise, perhaps even shock, and immediate recognition.

  Adam knew that he was no longer the sole focus of attention.

  “Let’s move him out,” a paramedic was saying in the background.

  “And what is your name?” said the chief inspector, his voice even, but with a hint of mockery.

  The boy gave a low, monotone reply—something indistinct.

  “I’m very keen to know where you live now.”

  “These days I have no fixed address.”

  “Well, I think you should come w
ith me.” The chief inspector reached for a pair of handcuffs that were dangling from his belt.

  Adam interrupted, putting his arm out to stop the policeman. “No. There’s some mistake. This guy saved us all. He went into the building. He’s a hero.”

  Sparks blew across the garden.

  “You know I’ll not come willingly,” warned the boy.

  “It’s me that you want,” Adam said insistently, no longer caring, wanting it all to end. I am the one who has killed again.

  The older boy turned toward him; “No, Adam, that’s not right. You’re still in—”

  Chief Inspector Hatfield pounced on Adam’s rescuer, calling for help. “This young man is under arrest.” The pair twisted and shoved as he struggled to get the handcuffs in place. “Help! He is resisting arrest!”

  Adam was confused. Normally, respect for the police would have beaten all other logic, but this person had saved his parents. “Let him go!” he shouted and grabbed the handcuffs, yanking them away.

  Megan pleaded, “Adam! Stay out of it, please.”

  The sight of a fight against the backdrop of the burning house transfixed onlookers. The two were silhouetted like shadow puppets, trading punches.

  Adam shoved the policeman, enabling the older boy to deliver a flurry of kicks and punches. Then, darting between firemen and over hoses, pushing past paramedics and barging one of the other police officers, the boy disappeared, sprinting down the side of the house toward the road.

  Adam stood outside the door of his father’s hospital room. He gazed at the words Intensive Care. Intensive. Words echoed in his ears: “He will live, but there’s a long journey ahead.” Then a woman’s voice: “Your mother is fine, but she will be here for some time.” The sentences overlapped and became jumbled up in Adam’s head. He didn’t know what the doctors really thought; he reckoned they always managed to generate positive news when talking to kids. They skimmed off and delivered the encouraging bits and left the rest to brood menacingly.

  Adam was standing with Megan and her parents. Megan’s dad, Mr. James, was pulling his hand down his cheek, making a rasping sound over thin stubble. “I’ve spoken to the police, who’ve spoken to social services, and they say that you should come back with us, Adam. They’ll want to talk to you tomorrow. There was an intruder who set fire to your house, and it seems that they shot your father.”