by Kevin Brooks
He was lying on the floor by the window. Face up, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. He was covered in blood.
It was Tyrell Jones, the leader of the Westies.
I knew he was dead, but I still had to check. My legs felt wobbly as I went over and crouched down beside him. When I saw all the blood, I thought I was going to be sick. He’d been stabbed in the chest and the stomach. I could see the stab wounds through his shirt — deep and ugly, thick with blood. There were at least three of them, maybe more. His hands were cut, too. And his face was all battered and smashed.
I put my fingers on his neck and felt for his pulse, but there was nothing.
He wasn’t breathing.
His skin was cold.
He was dead.
Stabbed ...
I looked down at the blood on my hands. There was blood on my shirt, too. But I wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t my blood. My heart sank as I looked over at the knife I’d dropped on the floor … the knife I’d had in my hand when I woke up.
The knife …
I looked back at Tyrell’s body again. The stab wounds in his chest ...
Then I looked at the knife.
The stab wounds.
The knife.
Oh, God ... had I killed him?
Had I stabbed Tyrell Jones to death?
********
My head was spinning now. I was trying to think, trying to remember, trying to stay calm. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t stay calm.
I couldn’t do anything. All I could do was stare at the blood on my hands.
Then I heard it again — the police siren. It was closer now. A lot closer. I got to my feet fast and went over to the window. I heard the sound of tires squealing outside, and when I pulled back the curtain I saw the flashing lights of two police cars swerving off the road and speeding towards the building.
I closed the curtain.
Which building was I in?”
Breathing fast, I opened the curtain again, took a quick look around outside, then shut it again.
I was in the West Tower. Third or fourth floor.
I was in a lot of trouble.
I was trapped in a room with a dead body. I had blood on my hands, and my fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. The police would be here any minute, and I couldn’t explain anything. I didn’t even know how I’d gotten here.
I had to get out.
I tried the front door, but it was locked. No key. I ran back into the front room and looked out of the window again. The police cars were parked down below. Their doors were shut but the lights were still flashing. Kids from the area were beginning to crowd the cars, laughing and shouting. I guessed the policemen must be on their way up now. Some in the elevator, some on the stairs. Covering all exits.
I leaned out of the window now and looked straight down. I could see the window of the apartment below. It was open. Could I get down there? The outside wall was smooth, but half-way down, between me and the apartment below, there was a ventilator shaft. If I could just get a foothold on that ...
I didn’t have time to think. I could hear running footsteps in the hallway now. Voices. Police radios. I opened the window and crawled out onto the sill ...
Fists started hammering on the door.
I grabbed hold of the window sill and let my legs slide down ...
Shouts — “Police! Open up! Open the door!”
My feet couldn’t find the ventilator shaft. I was hanging on the sill, three floors up, waving my feet around in the air ...
THUMP! The front door of the apartment cracked and splintered. They’d kicked it in ... I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let go of the ledge. For a terrifying instant, I just fell — my heart frozen, my hands scrabbling madly at the wall — and then my feet hit the ventilator shaft. I felt it crack, then my feet started to slip off, and for a moment I was falling again. Somehow I grabbed hold of a bit of the ventilator shaft as I fell, and at the same time my feet struck the window ledge of the apartment below. The next thing I knew I was scrambling in through the open window and dropping down onto the floor.
Above me, I could hear a door smash open and heavy boots crashing into the room.
I shut the window and breathed out hard.
I was shaking like a wreck.
Chapter 7
Madness and Goodness
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from the middle of the room behind me. I spun around and saw a crazy-looking old woman standing there. My mouth dropped open. I’d totally forgotten that someone might live in the apartment I’d come in to. I was too shocked to speak. I just stood there and stared, and the woman stared back at me.
She was about a million years old. Her hair was wild and gray, like a crazy bird’s nest, and her wrinkly old face was covered in make-up — purple eyes, jet-black eyebrows, bright pink lips. She was wearing a blue tracksuit, cheap white sneakers, and a pair of black lace gloves.
Mad as a bat.
“I know you,” she said suddenly.
“Sorry?”
“You’re Maria’s boy, aren’t you? Jimmy Delgado.”
“Johnny,” I said.
She cupped a hand to her ear. “What?”
“Johnny … Johnny Delgado.”
“That’s what I said.” She clacked her teeth. “Your mom’s a kind lady. She helped me up the stairs once. She told me all about you, said you were a good boy.”
“Right …”
I could hear more sirens now. More police. I could hear them upstairs, in the hallway, knocking on all the other doors.
“Betty Travis,” the old woman said.
“What?”
“My name’s Betty Travis. I expect your mom told you about me. She helped me up the stairs, you know.”
“Yeah …”
“What have you done?” she said.
“Sorry?”
She stared at me. “I might be a bit crazy, young man, but I’m not stupid. You’ve just climbed through my window. The police are all over the place. You’re sweating and shaking and you’re covered in blood.” She smiled at me. “If you want me to help you, I think you’d better start talking.”
I thought about running for it, just getting out of the door as fast as possible, but I knew I wouldn’t get very far. Betty was right — I needed help. I didn’t know why she wanted to help me, and I didn’t know how she could help me, but there was nothing else I could do.
So I started talking.
When I’d told her everything I could, she didn’t say anything for, a while, just stared at me. ”
After what seemed like a long time, she said, “Do you expect me to believe all that?”
I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
She looked at me for a moment longer, then nodded. “Right,” she said. “The bathroom’s down there. Get yourself washed and out of those clothes.”
Five minutes later, I was pushing Betty down the hallway to the elevator in a wheelchair. My hands were clean, the blood was washed off, and I had a scratchy blue tracksuit on. My own bloodstained clothes were tumbling around in Betty’s washing machine.
As we got nearer to the elevator, I saw there were two policeman standing guard beside it.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Betty whispered. “Let me do the talking.”
I carried on wheeling her towards the elevator. The two policemen were watching us now. I tried to look as innocent as possible. I was just some kid … a kid with a batty old grandma in a wheelchair. That’s all I was.
We were almost at the elevator, when suddenly Betty started to shake her head to and fro and jabber away like a crazy woman. “What’s going on?” she cackled. “What’s this?” She waved her hands at the policemen. “Who are you? What do you want? I haven’t done anything … what’s going on?”
Both the policemen looked startled. They turned to me.
“Sorry,” I said, “she’s just a bit—”
“Ji
mmy?” Betty screeched. “Jimmy … what’s this? What do they want? I haven’t done anything …”
One of the policemen pressed the elevator button. The other one tried to smile. It was the kind of smile you give to crazy people.
While Betty carried on jabbering and screeching, I smiled back at the policeman. “What’s going on?” I asked him in a casual voice. “Has there been some trouble?”
He shrugged. “Nothing to worry about.”
I nodded.
Betty lurched forward and swung her arm at him.
I pulled her back into the wheelchair. “Sorry …”
The elevator doors opened, and the policemen moved to one side. I wheeled Betty into the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Betty kept on with her crazy act until the doors had closed again and the elevator had started moving, and then she suddenly stopped.
“All right?” she said calmly and smiled at me.
“Very good,” I said. “Very realistic.”
She laughed. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
There were more police downstairs, and more outside the building, but none of them bothered us. Maybe the others had radioed down to let them know we were coming. Most of the kids hanging around outside were too busy jumping around the police cars to notice me, but I saw one or two of them nudge each other and point at me. But no one said anything.
I wheeled Betty across the road, through the square, and into the North Tower. I couldn’t see any policemen around get, but I was pretty sure they’d be here soon, so I didn’t waste any time. Into the lobby, into the elevator, shut the doors.
“Tenth floor,” Betty said.
“What?”
“I’ve got a friend on the tenth floor. You can drop me off there.”
I hit ten.
The elevator started moving.
I looked down at Betty. “Why are you doing this?” I asked her. “Why are you helping me?”
“Your eyes,” she said.
“My eyes?”
She smiled at me. “You have good eyes.”
Tenth floor. The doors opened and Betty got out. She pushed the wheelchair out in front of her.
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled again. “Come and see me some time. Keep a crazy woman company for a while.”
“OK,” I said.
She put her hand into the pocket of her tracksuit and passed me a cell phone. “Here, take it. Let your mom know you’re all right. You can bring it back when you come around to see me.” She leaned back into the elevator and pressed the button for the 23rd floor. Then she stepped back. “Adios, Johnny,” she said.
As the doors shut I stared at her, unable to speak.
How did she know I needed a phone? And how did she know I was going to the 23rd floor?
How did she know that? It’s not as if it’s where I live.
Chapter 8
Secrets and Lies
I’ve got a secret hiding place.
To get to it, you have to go up to the 23rd floor and follow the hallway right down to the end. Then you go through a door marked — PRIVATE. NO ENTRY! The door is always locked, so you need a key. I’ve had my key for about three years now. I borrowed it from a man from the management. He left the key in the door by mistake. I keep my key hidden away beneath a piece of loose floor near the door.
I go to my secret place when I want to be on my own and think about things. And that night I really needed to be on my own and think about things. There was a lot to think about
After I’d made sure that no one was watching me, I got the key from under the flooring, opened the door, then locked it behind me. The door goes into a little room that’s filled with all sorts of stuff — cupboards and shelves, boxes of tools, pipes and cables, heating controls. I went across the room and through a little archway. Then I went up some steps to another door. I pushed open that door and stepped out into a breeze of cold night air. I was on the roof of the building now. High above the ground. I could see for miles. I could see the lights of houses and apartments, headlights streaming on invisible roads, street lights, traffic lights, the lights of the city glowing in the distance ...
But there wasn’t time to enjoy the view.
I hurried across the roof, heading towards my secret place.
My secret place is a shed. A metal shed. It has a metal door, metal walls, and a metal roof. Inside, there’s a big metal cabinet covered in dials and displays. I’m not sure what it is, but it burns all the time. It’s also nice and warm. Apart from the cabinet and a couple of old chairs, the rest of the shed is empty.
Empty and quiet. I shut the door behind me, sat down on one of the chairs, and started to think.
Think.
What’s going on?
What happened?
How?
Why?
What are you going to do?
I thought about it. I thought hard, looking for why everything had happened the way it did. Looking for answers. Looking for facts. I tried to remember … but I still couldn’t. My head felt thick and dizzy.
I decided to stick to the facts.
Fact One — Someone had killed Tyrell Jones.
Fact Two — Either that someone was me, or someone else had framed me. They’d made it look as if it was me.
Fact Three — Even if I could kill someone, which I didn’t think I could, why would I kill Tyrell Jones?
Fact Four — Lee Kirk wanted to kill Tyrell Jones. If Marcus was right, and most of the time he is right, Kirk was planning to take over all the gangs in the area. With Tyrell out of the way, there was nothing to stop him.
Fact Five — Kirk was a psycho.
Fact Six — Kirk was clever.
What did it all add up to? Kirk had set me up. He’d gotten Carly and Beth to hire me so that I’d follow him. Then he’d gotten me in the elevator, beaten me up and left me in the apartment with Tyrell’s dead body. Maybe he’d called the police, too. Had he given them my name as well?
Why? So that no one would know who the real killer was. And the real killer was him. Kirk.
Yeah, but why did Kirk choose me? Why did I have to take the blame?
I didn’t know the answer to that. Right now that didn’t matter. What was bothering me right now was — what the hell was I going to do?
I called Mom first. I got Betty’s cell out of my pocket, punched in the number, and waited.
“Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me—”
“Hola, Juan. Cómo estás?”
“What?” I said. “It’s me, Mom — Johnny. Why are you speaking Spanish?”
“Policía,” she whispered. “Dónde estás?”
I got it then. She was speaking Spanish because the police were there. In the apartment. She didn’t want them to know she was talking to me. She wanted to know where I was.
“Estoy a salvo,” I told her. (I’m safe.) “No he hecho nada.” (I haven’t done anything.)
“Ya lo sé,” she said. (I know.) “No vengas a casa todavía. Llama a Della — OK?” (Don’t come home yet. Call Della — OK?)
“OK,” I said.
She put her phone down.
I thought about what she’d just said for a moment, then I called Della.
“Hello?”
“Della — it’s Johnny.”
“Johnny!” she cried. “What’s going on? Are you all right? I was with your mom just now and the police came around. They’re looking for you.”
“Yeah, I know. I just spoke to Mom on the phone."
“Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. What did the police say?”
“They wanted to know where you were. They wouldn’t say why.” She hesitated a moment. “They found the letter, Johnny.”
“What letter?”
“It was hidden in the bathroom.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“One of the policemen went into your bathroom and came back with a letter. I only
saw it for a second. It was something to do with your dad.”