Thirteen

by Tom Hoyle

  Immediately behind him was a tanker full of something dangerous. But he was steadily leaving the real danger behind.

  Chief Inspector Hatfield made three calls. The first was to the Old School House. Then he called the cell phone of a very senior police officer. Finally he spoke to his police station.

  24

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013

  After about fifteen minutes the truck carrying Adam angled off the highway and slowed. A number of other long vehicles came into view. Adam found that he had seized up in one position. Then, as the driver dropped to the ground on one side, Adam did the same on the other, holding his back like an old man.

  He ran to the trees beyond the parked trucks. The area was bleak, damp, metallically cold, lifeless. The trailers were obstinate weights dragged by aggressive engines. Drivers left their cabs in a hurry and returned reluctantly, wandering past oily puddles and soggy plastic bags. Adam felt a loneliness that he had never experienced before. The world had gone wrong.

  In the distance sirens passed.

  Adam sighed and held his head in his hands. It was dark. He had no money and no phone. He wished that he had taken some of the money from the shed. Just a tenner would have made all the difference. He had no ticket for London, no food, and only the clothes he stood up in: jeans and a blue Superdry top, the only suitable things that could be found that morning. The morning—so long ago, and things had seemed bad then.

  Continuing the journey in the same way he had escaped the accident was not an option. Though he was desperate enough to take the risk, he could easily fall off and certainly would be spotted when the truck reached London. People would point. The police would be called.

  He could steal something. Money? Adam didn’t worry about whether this was right or wrong; suspected of murder, and at risk of abduction, what was a little bit of theft? And I once felt bad about taking a packet of Toxic Waste from Mr. Rawley’s Corner Shop, thought Adam wryly.

  Food from Dumpsters? Adam feared he would have to get used to that. Scavenging was the future until . . . until . . . until when?

  He gazed into the distance as another bus pulled in, spitting out its crowd of passengers.

  His mind turned over as he watched: each bus, regardless of the company, followed the same pattern. Tickets were rarely checked when people got back on. Children’s tickets were never checked.

  Adam had to move quickly; he had heard somewhere that criminals had to move fast after a crime. Or was that the police?

  In the bathroom Adam noticed that most of his injuries were hidden by clothing, though his hands were grazed and dirty. He had a large bruise on his right shoulder and one on his right thigh. There were three cuts on his face, the worst just below his mouth. He dabbed at it but it still leaked blood. He shoved clean tissues into his pockets.

  Others in the bathroom gave Adam wary stares. Although he was only thirteen, he seemed to provoke fear rather than concern.

  Only one man, a burly truck driver, spoke: “You need to be more careful, son.”

  Adam wandered outside toward the busses, past CCTV surveillance.

  At the same time, a police car, blue lights flashing, was heading down the highway to check the service station. It had taken the police twenty-five minutes to widen their search.

  Adam saw that one bus was about to leave. The driver was standing in front of the vehicle, drawing on a cigarette. An old lady was asking him something. “All right, my dear, I’ll get it for you,” the man rasped, then went to the low side door where the luggage was stored.

  Adam saw his chance. He walked forward, head down, straight on to the coach and down the aisle. Those who saw Adam didn’t notice him. A mother was feeding her daughter a cheese-and-pickle sandwich; a university student was searching for something on an iPod; an old man with a tie was engrossed in a Daily Mail article.

  The siren was closer now, pulling into the service station.

  Adam slumped into his seat near the back of the bus as the driver threw away his cigarette butt and clambered back on board.

  “All here?” the driver asked, being friendly. He was nearly at the end of his journey.

  “Yes,” came the collective dull response.

  “Anyone here who shouldn’t be? Anyone forgotten?”

  “No,” said with slightly more enthusiasm.

  Police officers strode into the service station as the coach pulled out.

  Adam saw the clock outside Victoria Station: 8:47 p.m. Hunger ate at him, but he dismissed it, looking instead at a man sitting at the side of the pavement with a cardboard sign in front of him: Homeless and in Need of Help.

  Adam understood that he was in the same position. He started approaching people, “Can you spare some change so I can get home?”

  Six of the first twelve pedestrians ignored Adam; the other six said “No” (aggressively, with stares) or “Sorry” (sympathetically, but with similar stares).

  He persisted. “Can you spare some change so I can get home?”

  The thirteenth person stopped as if he had been expecting the question. He was a young man with glasses and rosy cheeks. He gave Adam the smile of one bubbling with contentment and mild amusement. “Yes, I can spare some change. It’s my responsibility to give; it’s your responsibility to use it wisely.” He reached into his pocket. “Please take this as well. God bless you.” He handed Adam a small leaflet entitled Jesus Saves and a fiver.

  Five pounds! Adam had always dismissed a fiver as barely sufficient for popcorn and Coke at the cinema, but now it seemed like riches.

  He immediately bought a cheeseburger and caught a bus that crawled through the packed streets of London toward Trafalgar Square. He looked at the people surrounding him and sighed; they seemed to have so little to worry about.

  Buses passed Trafalgar Square monotonously, pulse after pulse, full of solemn travelers: thousands of people and a misty night to get lost in. The twinkling city lights were wrapped in gray.

  A bus stopped; a child stepped off and dashed across the road as the green man flashed. Brown hair, slim, wearing a blue top.

  Two policemen saw. “Hello,” one said. “I think we’ve found our boy.” The other spoke quickly into his radio as they broke into a run. They put out their hands to slow the traffic and crossed toward the lions and Nelson’s Column.

  The suspect walked quickly across the square.

  “Let’s get him.” They darted forward and grabbed, forcing the child to the ground. There was no resistance.

  “Adam Grant?”

  “No, I’m not Adam anyone,” came a girl’s voice. “You’ve got real problems if you can’t tell boys from girls.”

  She was a girl of about thirteen.

  “Sorry,” one of the policemen said, helping her to her feet. “Very sorry.”

  Then back on the radio: “False alarm. False alarm.”

  Adam threw a piece of gravel at the window. It made a sharp tapping sound and then another as it fell down onto a watering can. He huffed. Damn. Come on. He threw again, making more of a clunk than a ping. There was movement inside the room, and the curtain twitched. Next time the stone ricocheted off the window inches from a peering face. Adam waved his arms silently, vigorously.

  Asa appeared at the window. “Adam?” He knew somehow that this was an occasion that required whispers.

  “Look. I can’t explain. I need your phone.”

  “Have the police let you go?”

  “I’m not with the police.” It was the best half-truth that Adam could come up with; it wasn’t actually a lie. “Asa—I really need your phone.”

  “Why? Rachel and I have been doing a bit of texting.”

  Adam had to advance quickly to proper lies.

  “I need to contact the hospital about my parents. My mum is seriously hurt. My dad might die. Megan’s parents won’t let me call.” Hospital and seriously and die were words that hung in the air. Adam whispered and lied on: “I’ll hand it back in a few minutes,” he said.r />
  Once Adam had the phone, he ran.

  Megan’s phone buzzed and she blearily picked it up. She had left it on in case another anonymous message arrived, but Asa’s name was on the screen.

  She pulled the phone under her covers and hissed, “Asa, it’s eleven thirty. Why are you ringing me?”

  “Meg. It’s Adam. Listen. You’ve probably heard what’s happened, or a version of it.” He didn’t pause, except to get a breath. “Hatfield was going to kill me, Meg. If I’m seen, I’m finished. I’ll be handed over to the police, or worse, to Hatfield. Tomorrow night I’ll try to find the boy who saved me and my parents. But until then I need to lie low. I need to rest and have something to eat and drink.” He paused. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Oh God,” said Megan. There was a pause. She felt that she was standing with her hand on a door, weighing up whether to enter, gathering the strength to make a decision. She knew that a lot of trouble lay behind the door, and that she would have to leave her parents behind. Whatever she did could change her life.

  The pause grew into silence. There was a buzz and a hiss on the connection. Then she spoke. And she never wavered, right until the end. “Okay, Adam. How can I help?”

  “I need some things.” Adam listed three items. “And this is where I’ll be hiding. . . .”

  Megan’s eyes widened as Adam explained.

  As soon as they agreed where and when to meet, the connection was cut. The phone went dead. Megan tried to call back, but it went straight to voicemail: “Hi, this is Asa. I’m busy, probably with girls, so leave me a message. . . .”

  Adam looked at Asa’s phone. The battery was dead. Sod it.

  There was a knock on Megan’s door and her father walked in. “Megan?” her father said. “Megan, are you on the phone?”

  A shaft of light illuminated Megan’s bed, Megan, and the phone. She looked embarrassed. “I’m really sorry, Dad. It was Asa.” She showed him the evidence on the screen. “He’s having problems with Rachel. You know . . .”

  Her dad took the phone, shaking his head, and said, “With everything else that’s going on, the last thing we need is you girls and boys messing around together.”

  Megan’s alarm sang under her covers and she was dragged from anxious dreams. She had set her alarm for 1:54 a.m.

  Adam slept fitfully in the shed. He couldn’t seem to get beyond the first chamber of sleep into the deep caverns that lay beyond. Every tap and rustle made him sit up, fiercely awake, and grab the shears he intended to use as a weapon.

  Something clattered far in the distance, perhaps a cat on corrugated iron. Adam tightened his grip on the shears. He looked at his watch: 1:56 a.m.

  Megan put on her nightgown, slid a backpack from under her bed and tiptoed downstairs—softly, slowly, secretly. Then, in the hallway downstairs, a sudden whirring and two solemn bongs from the clock: 2:00 a.m. The time they had arranged to meet.

  Moonlight, shining through a tree, scribbled a pattern on the kitchen floor. No need for a flashlight.

  She turned the key in the back door and froze. All quiet upstairs. Slowly, she opened the door; slowly, she went through and eased it shut.

  Megan’s father woke.

  Adam unlocked the shed as Megan rustled down her garden and through the bushes.

  Her father saw an empty bed. “Megan?” Worry edged into the fringes of his mind.

  Adam saw Megan scamper past the shed window. The door opened. “Meg, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said as he weighed the backpack in his hand.

  Megan smiled faintly. “Be careful. I don’t trust the guy you’re going to. He’s not normal.”

  “This whole thing isn’t normal, Meg. I’ll try to get in touch somehow.”

  Megan’s father went downstairs and stood next to the clock. “Megan?”

  At the same time, Megan put her hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Don’t laugh, but I want you to take something.” She pulled out a red wristband bearing the words London 2012. “It reminds me of the day we went to the cycling. I loved that day.”

  Adam still remembered flags and cheering, then their picnic, tearing cheese sticks in two and sharing pork pies. He remembered playing Frisbee and Asa singing a song from South Park.

  Megan’s father reached the kitchen door. “Megan?” His worry was maturing into panic.

  “Oh, Meg. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Adam’s hand was shaking as he put it on Megan’s arm. He felt so self-conscious, even embarrassed.

  He put the wristband on and smiled.

  Megan’s mother dashed down the stairs: “Megan?”

  Her father stepped outside: “Meggie? Megan?”

  “Oh no,” said Megan. “Hide!” She closed the shed door and stood in Adam’s garden as her mother and father appeared through the bushes.

  “Megan!” her mother said. “My God, Megan, what on earth are you doing?”

  Megan looked toward Adam’s old house. “Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. I just had to come and have a look.”

  “Meggie, Meggie,” her mother said. “You are being stupid. You must never leave the house at night again.”

  “Okay.” Megan’s parents saw her look at Adam’s house, with its charred brick and fallen roof beams. The one place she did not glance toward was the shed, where Adam now hid, barely five paces away.

  25

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2013

  Coron strode up to Dorm Thirteen. Urgent, excited.

  Asp was no longer there. She had used the gun.

  Coron pushed a button to the right of the door, then used a key. A wild-eyed man in his early twenties scampered to the far end of the cell, terrified. Otherwise, the room was empty apart from a light sunk into the ceiling, small circular grilles in three of the walls, a bottle of water and a plate of food.

  “I am instructed to be here,” said Coron, “but you have chosen. You said you wanted to join us and then you wanted to leave. It isn’t like that. This is a commitment that you must be trained into. Isn’t it?”

  The man didn’t know if the answer was yes or no. “I don’t—”

  “Now, let me tell you something. I have done wrong myself. You see, I was told to kill a woman. Marcia was her name. And I was slow. I was wrong. I was weak.” Tears leaked from Coron’s eyes. “And the Master killed her himself.”

  For Coron, the unseen hand of the Master was everywhere. For Coron, the car didn’t crash because Hatfield lost control; it crashed because the Master willed it. The Master, although a figment of Coron’s imagination, dominated his entire thinking.

  The man pushed himself farther back against the wall.

  “And it is worse. The Master used Adam as his angel of death,” Coron whispered, glancing behind him to see if anyone was there. “Shhh. I’ll tell you a secret. Perhaps the Master wanted to use him. I can’t let the Master down again. I have failed to bring Adam here for his sacrifice. I must be punished.”

  The man was confused. “You? Punished?”

  “Oh yes. I want you to understand that even I must be punished.” Then, kneeling close, Coron whispered something else.

  The man dragged his knees close and tried to hide his face behind his hands. “Please, no . . .” The crying began, as it usually did.

  “Yes,” Coron said. “I must suffer too, you see. We will suffer together.” I will suffer for my weakness, thought Coron. I will suffer badly.

  “And after we have endured our punishment together, we will consider what else is going to happen to you.”

  Little more than ten miles away from the Old School House, several police vehicles were parked on a small country lane next to a hill partially covered by large white tents. A line of officers walked through the field, gazing at the flinty ground in front of them, searching for evidence.

  One of the white tents covered the area where Python lay, knife projecting at a right angle from the center of his chest, the body returned on Coron’s orders so that Hatfield could pin the blame on Adam. Rai
n had smudged footprints back to mud.

  Two other officers stood talking, looking down toward the nearby fields where Rock Harvest had been held. “The body must have been here since the festival, not very well hidden, but undiscovered somehow. The knife was left in, can you believe? We might be able to get a print.”

  A photographer was documenting the scene, each click of the camera underlining the severity of Adam’s situation.

  “And the suspect is the same child who shot the boy and set fire to his own house?”

  “Yep. The boy had confessed to Hatfield, who was driving up here to investigate. Then the boy went crazy and caused the crash.”

  Both officers shook their heads. Most of the time child criminals knew nothing beyond the dreadful world they inhabited. “Weird. And this boy comes from what seems to be a good home.” The officer saw a man in a suit approaching. “Look out.”

  “This is a right bloody mess,” said the chief superintendent. “I’m going on the six o’clock news before it’s all over tomorrow’s papers. I’ll put out a description of the boy. Thirteen years old. Bugger it.”

  “Do we have any idea where he is, sir?” one of the policemen asked.

  “Vanished into thin bloody air. But he won’t be able to stay invisible for long.”

  Just under one hundred miles to the south, five people, two of them policewomen, sat around the table in Megan’s kitchen.

  “I said that I don’t know if he’s in London,” repeated Megan. “I have no idea where he would go, or what he would do, or who would help him.”

  In each case Megan lied.

  “We know that you’re telling the truth,” her mother said, “but we need you to think. We just want to find Adam before he kills someone else.”

  Megan was thinking—thinking hard about how not to give anything away. “Is Mr. Hatfield going to get involved again?” she said.

  One of the police officers spoke, moving her gaze from Megan to her parents and back again: “The chief inspector is keen to get back to work as soon as possible. We’ve heard what you’ve been saying about him, but he is a very experienced man, one of the best we have.”