Thirteen

by Tom Hoyle

  I don’t care that you’re stating the obvious, thought Adam. I’m going to need help.

  Mrs. James looked at her watch. “Let’s try to get a couple of hours of sleep.”

  “I think there’s something you should know,” said Adam, looking at the floor, then glancing up.

  “Yes?”

  Adam stopped. There was something about the way Megan was looking at him. “Oh, nothing. I’m just tired. It’s been horrible.” His voice trailed off. It was better to explain everything to the police tomorrow.

  Sitting in the back of the car with Megan as they drove back, Adam had a chance to worry about what was going to happen next. He had seen a program about forensic science and knew that the police would soon discover bones and guns. They would be poking around and taking away samples in small plastic bags. The guns would not have been burned away, that was certain. They also had ways to work out how fires started. Perhaps they would think that he was responsible. Adam seemed to remember a story about a girl who had killed her parents by burning their house down.

  Why has everything gone wrong?

  He gazed out of the window: shuttered shops and empty pavements drifted past. Then he felt a hand next to his. The little finger touched his thumb, just for a second.

  It slipped away as Mrs. James turned around. “Adam, dear,” she said. Megan’s mum was not usually the sort of person to say dear. “You go in the spare room, the one opposite Meggie’s. I’ll find some clothes for you.”

  Clothes. Things. Adam had only thought about his parents. Of course, he had lost everything in the fire. Everything. Or almost everything—an image of a Quality Street tin containing £1,000 quickly formed in his mind, then dissolved.

  For a fearful thought took its place: he was still in danger, and those he was with were in danger. Below that there was an ocean of worry. Adam had killed twice now.

  They entered Megan’s house in silence. The smell of burning wafted across the gardens, reminding and threatening, though no one mentioned it.

  Adam saw Megan once, when she left the bathroom and opened his door, saying his name. He was getting ready for bed. He liked it that Megan never knocked and waited.

  “The bathroom’s free. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I’m really grateful, Meg, but this is going to be complicated.”

  “Well, I’m here to help.”

  Then she spoke much louder as she went to her room: “’Night Mum, ’night Dad.”

  Adam closed his eyes. He wanted to think of something positive and calming. He tried to think of his parents, safe in the hospital. Then he tried to think of Megan: the way that she giggled and leaned toward him; the way that she had touched his hand.

  But his mind was always dragged back to one image: a gun resting on a pile of bones, the charred remains of a teenager. Another gun nearby. Both in his bedroom. Would they think that he had shot his own father? The James’s spare room faced away from his house, but he could still hear the rumbling of machinery and the shouting of firemen dousing the smouldering timbers. He imagined a jet of water spraying on cinders and revealing a gun underneath. A gun resting on bones.

  Adam slept for nearly three hours, then woke with a start.

  Two streets away, a boy with a scar crept past cars. Crouching down, he edged toward blue flashing lights and the throbbing of engines and pumping water.

  A long vehicle with a ladder on its back was reversing past him, its beep-beep shouting look out. The word Simon, his own name and the make of the machine, was written on the side of the ladder in large black letters.

  He could see two police officers ahead on the opposite side of the road, outside what remained of Adam’s house. One of them was Chief Inspector Hatfield, who would be looking for him. And here he was, hidden behind a vehicle made by a company called Simon.

  Chief Inspector Hatfield certainly knew that was his name.

  Simon vaulted a gate and waited; through a small gap in the hedge he could see a fire engine. Hatfield was still in the distance. Simon saw that the fire was out, but steam and wisps of smoke still rose from the skeleton of the building.

  The ability to wait had always served him well. He had been taught to take no unnecessary risks. If waiting reduces risk—wait. So he was patient.

  A fireman, distinguished by his white rather than yellow helmet, came to Hatfield and said something. There was pointing and gesturing, and they went into what used to be Adam’s front garden, stepping over the thick snakes that still carried water into the house.

  Simon took his opportunity and scampered forward, running along the pavement and then down the side of the building opposite Adam’s. He came to a neglected yard that housed bins, rusting fridges and moldy sofa cushions, then pushed open the back door and ran up three flights of stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top on the left was flat six. Simon had been lucky to find a room so close to Adam’s house.

  Blue flashed through thin curtains, giving just enough light to see. Simon didn’t want to turn on the bare bulb.

  The room was almost empty. A single mattress, with a pillow but no sheets, lay on the floor, and there was an old table and two chairs.

  Everything was as Simon had left it when he’d seen the smoke and dashed across to Adam’s house. Now he quickly added a computer to the clothes already in his backpack, and picked up his mobile phone. In the bathroom he collected essentials. Then he felt the side of the backpack for other items. Satisfied, he pulled out his phone and typed a text, just thirteen words long.

  SEND.

  The message traveled from phone to mast to message center to mast to phone in an instant. It arrived at a number Simon had discovered after sliding Asa’s phone from his pocket one morning on the tube.

  The phone Simon wanted to send the message to had melted a few hours earlier. So he had to contact another one. But this receiving phone sat lifeless.

  It was turned off, as her mum and dad insisted, in Megan’s bedside cabinet, eighteen inches from her sleeping head.

  No bleep; no red flashing light. The message was not received for nearly twelve hours.

  20

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013

  Viper leaned across the back seat, pressing a cloth to Coron’s right arm, as Marcia swung the car into the drive at the Old School House.

  Coron held a phone in his left hand: “I want it brought in today.” Something was being explained on the other end of the line. “No,” Coron continued, “all of it. I am aware of the dangers. I want to be able to take us wherever the Master leads. Are you doubting us?”

  The gates automatically closed behind them. As always, guards and weapons were nearby. On this occasion, anyone looking into the trees on the right-hand side would have seen a guard lurking behind a tree with a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun.

  The car slid to a stop. “I’ll get Dr. Graves,” said Marcia.

  Something stirred within Coron. Marcia was attractive, and she cared. Coron shoved the feeling away. “That is exactly why we have failed,” he shouted. “Why I have failed. Priorities.”

  Blood had stained through the cloth that Coron threw to the ground. The wound gave a severe, deep throb; lines of agony splintered through his arm. Coron felt as if several knives were pressing deep into him at once. But he relished the pain. It was as if his mind was being tugged toward it. A punishment. Coron pushed down slightly on to the gash: electric stinging pulsed outward. He squeezed more, digging in, and an explosion of blistering pain drove through bone and flesh.

  Good. I want it to hurt.

  Dr. Graves, summoned from her shift at the local hospital, gave instructions as Coron was laid on the table. She examined his shoulder, front and back, pressing around the wound and then opening it up slightly with her fingers. “I will have to extract the bullet,” she said. “It’s lodged deep.”

  Coron seemed unconcerned by the injury, though blood now covered his entire left side down to his knee and was smeared thinly over half his face
.

  Dr. Graves prepared medical instruments. “This is going to hurt. I’ll give you something for the pain, but you may feel light-headed.” Pressing the wound with one hand, she picked up a syringe with the other.

  Coron turned his head so that he looked into the doctor’s eyes. “No. No drugs. Never.”

  “Yes, Lord Coron.” Dr. Graves eased the flesh apart; blood spread across the table and trickled onto the floor in steady drips. She used tweezers to extract the bullet, pushing deep into the raw gash. Coron closed his eyes and said nothing. He didn’t flinch, even when the bullet was pulled from sinew and the pain throbbed and jabbed from deep within his shoulder.

  The room was in silence.

  When he heard the bullet clink on the table next to him, Coron emerged from his trance, half ignoring, half embracing the pain that screamed at him.

  Viper admired Lord Coron’s mastery of pain’s intense bite. His bravery made her love him more than ever.

  Coron walked through the main door and into a small room that was little more than a cupboard. His bandaged arm hung by his side. With his good arm, he pulled back a musty curtain and then opened a second door. This next room was much larger and had a polished wooden floor. Angled ceiling lights illuminated paintings that hung in every space, even in front of boarded-up windows.

  He strode across the room, heading for a smaller door, pointed at the top, probably from an old church.

  Coron did not look at the paintings, but those dragged screaming and pleading through this room did. The more unwilling and frightened they were, the more they noticed and understood. They saw Abraham lifting a knife above Isaac, a copy of a painting by Rembrandt; they saw Jephthah sacrificing his daughter in flames; they saw a large depiction of Josiah offering human bones on an altar.

  Near the door that Coron opened there were more confusing and recent pictures: a figure falling in front of a tube train, a boy in his bed. And there were many others.

  Every single picture portrayed sacrifice.

  Coron closed the door behind him, revealing space for one final picture on the wall.

  Words ran around the top of the room: “I will deliver you into the hands of brutal men who are skillful to destroy. You shall be the fuel for the fire; your blood shall be in the midst of the land.”

  Coron walked down a spiral staircase, through a door at the end of a small chamber and into a large space lit by thirteen candles. A black cloak was waiting for him.

  He knelt down in front of a stone altar and closed his eyes. “Master, I am sorry.”

  The darkness in front of Coron seemed to dissolve. His mind scratched at the surface of reality, uncovering what lay beneath. Soon, like a face appearing on the surface of a swamp, Coron saw the Master emerging. He took shape in Coron’s mind, growing, solidifying, edges being cut out of the air.

  In the Middle Ages those who had visions were considered inspired.

  As before, the same hallucination appeared, a wrinkled face deeply lined like an old man’s; then hair, in long tufts; then a thin, bony body almost covered by a cloak.

  The Master was present.

  They said that drugs would stop me seeing the Master. They were evil men who deserved their death.

  “Master, I have failed you, and I will take whatever consequence you choose.”

  “Yes, you have failed. Adam is the one. He must be killed while he is still thirteen.”

  Coron knew this with a conviction even stronger than before. He had always known. Adam was the one. Thirteen—the last year of childhood.

  In Coron’s mind, the Master’s voice was thin and high-pitched, half music, half whine. “Coron, I will tell you why you have failed me.”

  Listen!

  “You have been weak. You have been lazy. The world outside is like a forest; the dead wood must be cut away. You must do the cutting.”

  The words Coron imagined were like a spider’s silk, weaving around his mind, spinning a thick and clinging web.

  The vision continued: “Adam must be brought here and sacrificed on this altar. All of The People must gather to see it. ALL MUST CELEBRATE HIS DEATH. You must hold the knife.”

  I will hold the knife.

  Coron wallowed in madness.

  “Yes, the old world is passing, and the new is coming. You have been weak and lazy. Now you must prove yourself worthy to be a king.”

  Yes, I was weak and lazy. Now I can be a king.

  “You must do something that the world will see. You must announce your rule with terrible bursts of fire.”

  I know. I can see it. Those who oppose must die.

  “You will rule as King of the World. All will look to you.”

  Yes, I am the center of the world.

  “But, Coron, failure has its price. You must be free of distraction.”

  Yes, free of distraction. Yes.

  “You must rid yourself of the woman who has distracted you. She has been sent as a temptation.”

  Marcia. Yes, Master, she is a temptation. I will extinguish her.

  “You must not love anyone but me.”

  I know. I must love you more than I love myself.

  SO WHY HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING OF A WOMAN’S LOVE?

  Master, you are the one who will make me king.

  KILL THOSE WHO DISTRACT AND OPPOSE.

  Master, please don’t leave me.

  THINK ONLY OF ME.

  Yes, you.

  ME.

  Us.

  YOU.

  Me.

  Coron felt that a thousand blades of thick black pain were closing in on him, cutting and tearing.

  He fell to the ground, exhausted, and was swallowed up by unconsciousness.

  21

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013

  Adam woke up. A gun resting on bones, he thought. I have killed twice. He saw the flash of a gun and the glint of a knife.

  The gun and the bones had remained hidden throughout the night, but it was inevitable that sooner or later the black boot of a fireman would nudge the charred evidence.

  “Sir, I’ve found something,” shouted a yellow hat to the white hat. “I think you should look at this.” The fireman had been clambering over fallen ceiling beams in what used to be the kitchen, hosing down the very last of the embers.

  They both swore. The man in charge muttered, “What the hell is going on here?” It was definitely a body.

  Three hours later police were on the scene and the area was being photographed and meticulously picked apart. Soon, a gun was found. Later, another.

  “What the hell happened here?” said the policewoman in charge of examining the scene. “It looks like these were in the boy’s bedroom.”

  It was nearly midday.

  About eleven o’clock, after a late breakfast and a deluge of comfort from Megan’s parents that made Adam feel awkward, Mr. and Mrs. James said that they had to go out for a couple of hours.

  Adam and Megan sat in the kitchen, heads resting in hands.

  “There were lots of police there, Meg, I could see them. It’s only a matter of time,” Adam said.

  “Adam. Listen. We need to bring this to an end now. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all self-defense. You’re thirteen. You need to be kept safe.” She looked right at him and produced the hint of a smile. “Look, I want you kept safe.”

  “I hear you,” Adam groaned.

  “You’ve been really brave and I think you’re great, but now I just want life to go back to normal. Let’s finish these drinks and then tell the police.” At that point the doorbell rang.

  Megan and Adam walked together, downcast despite their resolution. But it was not the police. Rachel, Asa and Leo stood at the door.

  “Oh-my-God,” said Rachel. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Little do you know, thought Adam.

  Rachel hugged Adam, more with her shoulders than the rest of her body. Then Leo took over with a right-handed clasp around the back of Adam’s neck. Asa stood before
Adam for a second and then the boys hugged tightly. They leaped back, surprised and embarrassed.

  “I hope everything’s cool now,” said Asa, bouncing up and down slightly in an attempt to distance himself from this show of emotion.

  “Yeah. Cool.”

  They sat around the kitchen table, and Adam gave a heavily edited version of events, glancing now and again at Megan, who knew the full story. All sorts of questions were fired in and answered with varying degrees of honesty.

  Then, at nearly one o’clock, the doorbell rang and two indistinct blue figures could be seen outside.

  “Guys, I think you should go,” said Adam, his face drained of color.

  Desperate to stay but clearly displaced, the three edged past two police officers, a man and a woman.

  “Are you Adam?” the woman said. She leaned down slightly, trying to look unthreatening.

  “Yes.”

  Megan stood very close. “And I’m Megan, his friend.”

  “We need to talk to you, Adam. We need to know some things about the fire.”

  Megan’s parents were striding up the path behind the police.

  “Officer? Is there a problem?” said Megan’s mum, immediately fearing bad news from the hospital.

  “We need to talk to Adam about the fire. Perhaps we could all take a ride down to the station and have a chat?” It wasn’t a question, of course.

  Mr. and Mrs. James frowned slightly at Adam.

  Adam looked at Megan. “I think that would be a good idea.”

  Megan’s mum was keen to take control. “Right, we’ll come with you and act in the place of your parents. Megan, you stay here and we’ll be back soon.”

  “No,” Megan said immediately. “I’m coming with you.”

  The four of them followed behind the police car to the station. Megan’s cell phone sat unanswered in her bedside drawer.

  Chief Inspector Hatfield was standing on the steps to meet them. “I am so sorry about this, but we need to ask Adam some questions.”