Thirteen

by Tom Hoyle

  “I hope that’s right.”

  “It is. Believe me, I’m in almost as much danger as you.” Simon looked eager to throw his information in front of Adam. He moved about uneasily on his chair, as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “I used to be in this group called The People. A cult. Weird, wacky nutters—I see that now. But I was four when my mum and dad joined, and I knew no different. Just imagine it: no TV, no Internet, nothing. I only found out about your world because I was sent out into it.”

  Adam put one hand on his forehead.

  “Get ready, Adam. Please, please don’t run when I say this.”

  Adam frowned and leaned forward, an involuntary suggestion of trust.

  “I was sent out to kill. To kill boys. I did three, all born at midnight on millennium night, just like you.”

  Adam recoiled. “You! You’ve killed?” He almost said like I have. He tried to imagine this older boy killing, but couldn’t.

  “Yeah, me. And each day I’m attacked by the guilt.” Simon thumped his hand into his upper chest. “The only way I can heal myself is by doing some good. By protecting you.”

  After a few seconds of tense silence, Adam nodded. His eyes went around the room as he thought. “But I wasn’t—”

  “Take it from me: the one accurate thing in all of this is your birthday.” Simon took a very deep breath. “Look, however mad it sounds, this group, led by a guy called Coron, believes you’re some sort of . . . a danger . . . the fourth in a series of great figures born two thousand years apart.”

  Adam shook his head, fascinated but despairing, mouth slightly open, eyes staring.

  “It’s all in a book written by Coron himself. It says that if you get to be a man—and according to him, that’s when you’re fourteen years old—you’ll get your . . .” Simon shrugged as if he couldn’t find the right word. “Powers, and be able to sort them out. I think they believe that you will reign in their place unless you’re killed.”

  “They’re insane.”

  “Yeah. I know that more than anyone. Coron sees things, hallucinates. And there’s over a hundred of them in the cult, maybe more, including lots of kids, and people like . . .” He paused for an instant. “Chief Inspector Hatfield.”

  “What the . . . ?” Adam didn’t have the energy to finish the sentence. He thought about how he just wanted to be normal and hang out with Megan and Asa and Leo.

  Simon continued, “I even helped them search for you; that’s how I know who you are.”

  The story and his profound tiredness were smothering Adam. It was all so unreal.

  “We’re in this together. As far as I know, I’m the only person ever to leave The People and live. I first went on the streets, then found this place. We need to stay out of sight here until December. The date set for their ‘kingdom’ is January 1, 2014. They’re bound to do something stupid involving guns, maybe even bombs.”

  Adam sometimes swore, but always on purpose. This time the word just slid out of him, more of a sound than a comment: “Shit.”

  “So we have a month to go, then we will call the police. If we wait, I think they can be caught red-handed. I know where their base is: a place called the Old School House. In the meantime we’re going to stay here, in these few rooms, nearly all of the time.”

  Adam rubbed his eyes and struggled to make his words sound lighthearted: “Is that all?”

  “Not quite. It does get worse.”

  “Simon, mate, it can’t get any worse.”

  “My name is Simon Hatfield. That policeman—he’s my father.”

  Adam spat the word out: “No!”

  “Yes,” Simon continued, “and the girl at the festival . . .”

  Adam nodded slowly.

  “She’s my sister.”

  They stared at each other.

  Adam said two words: “It’s worse.”

  part four

  29

  TWENTY-FOUR DAYS LATER: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2013

  Morning

  Chief Inspector Hatfield stood before Coron, head slightly bowed as he spoke. “I know. I know. I know.”

  Coron sat back. “Be careful.”

  “I’m sorry.” Then, quietly, “I am very sorry.” Hatfield gesticulated with tight, frustrated hands. “There’s still no trace of him. Someone is hiding him, I’m sure of it, and the girl must be the link. But I’m certain that he has made no direct attempt to find out about his parents—no letter, no call, nothing electronic. The girl, Megan, is being watched: she never meets him.”

  “I do hope that you are not making a basic mistake. The universe—our whole universe—hinges on the sacrifice of Adam. For your sake, I hope you’re trying hard enough to find him.”

  Hatfield had explained repeatedly that all lines of inquiry were being investigated. Megan was being monitored closely. Her email, phone calls and Facebook were checked; they had even looked into possible intermediaries (Rachel? Leo? Asa? Her own parents?), but neither the police nor cult surveillance had found any evidence of her using anyone else to communicate with Adam. “We recovered the letter she posted yesterday. It was a card to an aunt in Toronto.”

  Coron closed his eyes in angry despair, then bellowed, “It’s him! He has left the country.”

  “I feared so myself, my lord. But the Ontario police were quick to confirm that the woman exists. And the message was simply ‘Love from all of us.’ ”

  Coron thought. “Perhaps he is using a different form of communication? Something spiritual?” He shook his head. “No. The Master would not permit it now that the battle in heaven has been won.”

  “I’ll redouble our efforts. We’ll have three police officers and ten loyal members of The People watching her journey home this afternoon. If she drops anything or passes something to a third party, we’ll certainly know.”

  Coron spoke to himself, almost in a trance. “Police interference has only managed to put her on her guard. She helped him that first night, and she is the one taking messages to his parents. The Master is right.”

  “My lord?”

  Coron looked up. “The very fact that she is not looking for him betrays her.”

  Afternoon

  A pace back from the window, Adam peered through binoculars and spoke to himself: “Here she is. Ah—yellow! She must have been to visit my parents.”

  Megan was walking her usual route home through Paradise Fields. Held against her chest was a yellow science folder.

  It was on the fifth morning after Adam’s disappearance that a figure in a hoodie had leaned forward as soon as Megan sat down on the bus and whispered, “He says thank you for the wristband. Before Rachel joins us, get off and meet me where he went the other night.” Megan went there quickly. In a blur of efficient, grown-up conversation, a system was established: Megan would use school folders to display information as she walked home, around four o’clock, past the sundial near to the western entrance of the park. She laughed when Simon quoted Adam: “She’ll like this arrangement; she treats those folders like pets.”

  The system had served them well for almost three weeks.

  Her yellow science folder meant there was a message to be dropped into one of the bins near to the sundial, which was clearly visible from the top floor of 53 Park Avenue; her blue history folder meant all was well; her red one—English—meant there was trouble. Simon left urgent messages on the window ledge outside one of the cubicles in the nearby ladies’ public lavatory, a tatty building thick with bushes on the far side. But he insisted this would only be every fourth day, and he would try to deter Adam from sending anything.

  It was the yellow folder—a message!—that afternoon.

  Simon was muttering about money. “We’ve got 481£ left, so we’re in the clear. Only five days to go, then I think we’ll tip off the police. If we lose our nerve and go sooner, they might not find anything, and we’ll both end up in some sort of institution.” He wasn’t listening to Adam. They had been in one another’s company for over three w
eeks. Three weeks during which every newspaper had carried daily news of the search for Adam.

  Adam squinted and pushed the binoculars harder against his face. “She’s wandering past. Now, where are you going to leave the message?”

  Megan dared not look up at the tall houses that overlooked the park. How incredible! While the police followed up possible sightings everywhere from Cornwall to Scotland, Adam was here, right under their very noses.

  Displaying the appropriate folder, knowing that she could be seen, felt like a full conversation. And it was easy to slide a message inside a wrapper or tissue and drop it into a bin, though she had done it only three times. Adam had sent two mildly confusing coded messages, both intended to reassure his family.

  Megan had to be casual. Acting flustered was simply a matter of adding to what was already there, but pretending to be casual was difficult; hiding her anxiety took real effort. Despite the gray weather, there were quite a few people around, and she was wary of everyone. Be casual! she thought. A boy and his dad fed a squirrel; a jogger stretched on the step below the sundial; a middle-aged couple read the information about the rose garden. Other people were at the periphery of her consciousness. Be casual!

  A message written inside a tissue explained that Adam’s mum was out of the hospital and would be staying with her sister, and that his father was much better but still under observation. She was going to drop it into the bin under the oak tree, as if it was a natural and thoughtless act.

  Adam put the binoculars down. He could still see the shrubs and rock garden around the sundial, as well as the field in the distance, where he had once fought Jake Taylor. “Si, there’s more people today, and unless I’m going paranoid, they’re watching Megan. Mate, stop me worrying.”

  Simon shuffled over. “Pass me the binocs.” Black circles surrounded figures as he looked from person to person. “Oh my God. Turn on the phone!”

  Five buttons were pressed:

  Contacts

  Meg

  N

  O

  SEND

  Megan ambled toward the bin and dabbed at her nose with the tissue.

  “What’s going on?” asked Adam.

  “Bollocks. They’re on to her. I know at least five of those people.” Simon and Adam stood back from the window and crouched down, suddenly fearful that someone would look in their direction.

  As Megan approached the bin she felt her phone buzz. A one-word message: “NO.”

  She frowned and quickly deleted it. Then she put the tissue in her pocket and walked on. But she couldn’t help glancing around and hurrying.

  Evening

  Coron and twelve others sat around a table. Jugs of water were set in the middle, papers and pens scattered around. It looked like a business meeting.

  A woman was speaking very deliberately, often glancing at Coron. “So I suggest that we place one here”—she tapped at a large card—“and here”—another tap—“as well as in the places already established. These last two can be placed there on the day by anyone. The area isn’t restricted.”

  The man at the head of the table nodded. This was taken as general approval.

  “The explosion here,” she added, pointing, “will be the biggest. Because of its location, the device can only be placed by servants Hatfield and Cook.”

  The man at the head of the table picked at his hands. The scars itched sometimes, a reminder of his role. “The Master says that we can’t concentrate on this because we have been slow to seize Adam. ADAM!”

  Everyone looked down, except Viper, whose gaze never wavered from Coron’s face.

  Coron laid his hands on the table, as if to show that he was calm. “Lord Coron wants to know about the transmitter. The devices must set off everything exactly at once. Exactly at midnight.”

  Prompted by nervous glances, a young man, little more than twenty years old, spoke. “Yes, Lord Coron, we will have a range of over a mile. The transmitter will work well at the top of the building.”

  Coron stood up and went over to two large wooden crates. The meeting had started with everyone peering at the contents. “When we have the world’s attention—and ADAM is sacrificed!—all will bow down to me, and to the Master.”

  Coron kicked the side of one of the crates. A significant cache of explosives sat inside, separated into about forty different packages. He reached down, picked out a number of the plastic-wrapped squares and placed them on the table.

  “I want these to stay here; I have a special purpose for them. The rest are to be taken to the London house. We must knock down before we can build. We have been slow to see how powerful and imaginative the Master’s ways are. Our devotion to the Master must be absolute.”

  Coron felt the Master welling up inside him, using him as a mouthpiece, his words tickling, enticing, enthralling. “One day you will be in glory. And not in some distant world, but real glory here on earth. Here, where pleasure is as real as flesh and blood. Pain teaches and punishes; glory rewards and electrifies. You are the chosen ones.”

  How lucky we are, they thought. Millions—billions—of people on earth, and we are the chosen twelve. We are the ones in the same room as Lord Coron.

  “You are the twelve. One day you will sit on thrones ruling the world with me. And our time is near. The Master has shown me everything. His hand guided mine as we completed our book.”

  Coron closed his eyes for about thirty seconds. At these times the Master blended into him. They spoke as one. Inspired. Unique.

  “I want you to bring the girl Megan here. She knows where the Imposter is. But she will not tell willingly; pain will be needed to draw the information from her.”

  “We will make it so, Lord Coron.”

  “And the Traitor, who has been helping the boy—we will break him into a million pieces.”

  Break him, they thought. Yes. We will destroy him.

  “And leave two people in the park. Adam is nearby. Somehow he was there today. TODAY! ADAM! We have traced the text that she received, and it was made from the cell tower that is near the park. The girl was being watched, and she knew it.”

  Coron looked at Viper and smiled. She is young, he thought, but she is the best of my disciples, even better than her father. How unlike her brother, the Traitor.

  Coron spoke in a flurry of words. “We must thank the Master. We must thank him with a worthy sacrifice. Bring down the man from Dorm Thirteen.”

  30

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2013

  Excitement about Adam’s whereabouts did not dim in the month after his disappearance. On the playground Megan was often surrounded by other kids peppering her with questions, like journalists keen for a straight answer from a politician. Megan preferred interrogation by the police.

  “Did you know he was going to kill people?”

  “So you’ve no idea where he is then?”

  “Has he sent you a message?”

  “Did you think he was going to kill you?”

  Megan looked at each of the excited faces surrounding her. She couldn’t blame them for asking, and though it was irritating, it wasn’t real peril, not of the sort that Adam faced. And it would have been much worse if they truly suspected she was in contact with him.

  Mr. Sterling dawdled across to the group. “I am sure that Miss James has answered enough questions for today,” he drawled. “And I need to cross-examine her again myself.”

  Walking in silence, Megan followed Mr. Sterling to his office door. He turned and frowned. “Can I help you?”

  “You asked for me to come with you, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. I thought you might need a break from that nonsense. I have no intention of asking you anything.” He smiled. “You wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

  “But . . .” Megan started. “I . . .”

  Mr. Sterling stood with his hands in his pockets. “I refuse to do a jigsaw when I don’t have all the pieces. And I’m sure you have more of the pieces than anyone else.” A rapid clip-clip s
ound was approaching down the corridor. He looked behind Megan and muttered, “Deny everything.”

  Megan frowned as Mrs. Tavistock appeared, dressed in a neat dark blue skirt and jacket. “Megan, I wondered if you wanted another chat?”

  “Miss James was just saying how much she would have liked to have a word with you, but was worried about being late for the trip,” Mr. Sterling said, closing his office door to stop the headmistress from peering inside.

  Mrs. Tavistock puffed herself up slightly and spoke in the tones of an anxious grandmother. “Well, Megan, you know that I am always here if you need someone. I really understand what you are going through, dear.”

  Megan thought of Adam’s impersonation of Mrs. Tavistock, widely held to be more like her than the real thing. “Yes, thank you. That’s very kind,” she said politely.

  Mrs. Tavistock wondered how such a good girl had become involved with such a nasty boy.

  Mr. Sterling looked at his watch. “That’s it. I have to go. I’m part of this ordeal today. I hope there’s something good to see.”

  Mrs. Tavistock snapped into a high-pitched rebuke. “Mr. Sterling. You shouldn’t jest. It’s the British Museum. The British Museum!”

  The trip to the British Museum was seen by most at Gospel Oak Senior as an inevitable but mild torment, at best an opportunity to escape lessons and, hopefully, teachers. Leo and one or two others were secretly looking forward to it, but only the most committed nerd would have admitted such a thing.

  During the journey, conversation had drifted from Adam’s whereabouts and guilt on to either football (mainly the boys) or who fancied whom (a topic explored with equal enthusiasm by everyone).

  Megan’s class was given worksheets and sent to rooms full of Roman artifacts. Megan, Rachel, Asa and Leo immediately formed a unit.

  “Right, Meg, you write it down for our group,” said Asa, peering lazily into a display case. Then his face was alive with entertainment. “Holy crap! Have you seen this porn?” He was pointing at a 2,000-year-old silver cup depicting an adult scene.