Boy Kills Man

‘This is a fierce, strange and beautiful book, with an unswerving gaze on a terrifying tale. It gives a genuinely human face to a world we would rather dismiss as merely brutal, where the choice is destruction or self-destruction. It captures with great honesty the way weapons can empower those with no hope, and how there can still remain a kind of pride in oneself, even when every door to the future has been closed in your face. Bold, chilling and beautifully written. It really left an ache behind.'

Melvin Burgess

‘A powerful, affecting novel about lost youth, and a sharp evocation of one boy's terrible passage from innocence to experience … a book we could all do with reading.'

Keith Gray, The Guardian

‘
Boy Kills Man
takes a tough, unrelenting look at the nightmare world of Colombian child assassins. Tautly written, giving no hostages to sentimentality at any stage, it is the sort of book that has to be read and then proves impossible to forget. Stunning … all that is left is a feeling of sadness and loss. A fine achievement.'

Nick Tucker, The Independent

‘Excellent … Sonny is a bit like Henry Hill in Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas. It's a shock to realise that his relationshp with Beatriz, the girl he might have loved, has been nothing more than a few shy words'

William Leith, The Daily Telegraph

‘Almost causes you to forget that its central characters are only twelve years old. This powerful novel should not be taken lightly.'

Claudia Mody, The Bookseller

‘A tough, uncompromising – and very impressive piece of writing.'

Robert Dunbar, The Irish Times

‘A fine story, based on the child assassins of Colombia. Bloody, desperate and full of tragic pride, the sheer unfairness of life caught between these pages make you want to scream out.'

The Daily Telegraph – Books of the Year 2003

‘A chilling and brilliant account of boyhood, friendship and how adults can destroy potential and promise. I'll certainly be recommending it. And the title though strange and shocking gives way to a story that is never sensationalised.'

Niall Macmonagle

‘The teenage fiction debate will be fuelled by Matt Whyman's novel,
Boy Kills Man,
which accounts the experience of a child assassin living in a South American ghetto. The fine text is surprisingly gentle
–
in contrast to the brutal story which pulls no punches.'

Barbara Pendrigh, The Bookseller

‘Just occasionally, a novel hits you with such force that it takes a while for what you've read to sink in.
Boy Kills Man
is such a book.'

Jayne Howarth, The Birmingham Post

‘… a narrative that few readers of twelve and above will be able to put down.'

Anne Johnstone, The Glasgow Herald

‘A powerhouse of emotion and atmosphere that never fails to captivate.'

John McLay, Ink

Table of Contents

Title Page

Praise

The Boy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

The Man

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

San Cristobal district, Medellín, Colombia – right now:

Shorty
lives
up to his nickname. He hasn't seen the target he's about to take out, but knows it'll be hard to do
so
with a headshot.

The boy's driver
–
a man with a sleepy eye, known only as Manu
–
glances in the rear view mirror. Shorty
is
slouched in the back there. He has one shoe up on the seat, but Manu isn't hired to teach him manners. That kind of thing was down to his wet-eyed mamà, also the boss man who covers her rent, and little kids like this one always listen to him first. Shorty
is
wearing cut-down jeans and a white t-shirt, the sleeves folded up like a vest, and he's trying hard to fill it by chewing on a stick of gum. The shirt
is
way too big for him. So too
is
the gun in the holster Manu can make out underneath: a 38 Super Auto that the young assassin will have to fire with both hands to counter the kickback.

They're parked in a dusty residential street, with wax palms on each side. The trunks are skinny and skewed, each crowned by green blades that cut up the skyline all over the city. The car
is
the same kind of green, but for the rust and the mud splats. It's an old Dodge Dart that Manu sometimes drives as an unlicensed cab. Even with the windows down it reeks of sweat, tobacco and air freshener. If they have to wait any longer, thinks Manu, the stink will kill them before the heat.

It's two o'clock in the afternoon, and a brutal sun keeps most people indoors. The only activity takes place up ahead, where a knot of older kids flick a soccer ball among themselves. Shorty has been focused on them since they pulled up. In his dreams he'll play professionally one day, for Atlético Nacional, Medellín's number one team, but right now the drug inside him stops his feet from becoming too itchy. Shorty has a job to do here, after all, which is why Manu had injected him minutes earlier with two mills of the anti-panic medication he keeps in the glove compartment.

Man, too much of that gear could send them straight to sleep. It was just a question of keeping them focused without watering down the natural adrenalin that turned the little ones into live wires. In the right hands, it could be a lethal combination. That the law wouldn't jail a minor for a murder made them ideal for the job. Unless the government lived up to its half-assed legislation, and took hired guns like this one under its wing, well, the street would always take care of them. They got protection this way, and even a purpose in life, which was more than the state could offer. Sure, some rehab centres had been opened up to save such delinquents from themselves, but nowhere near enough to cope with demand. Abandoned but untouchable, these kids made perfect killers.

Voices emerge from a lobby just then: a couple in conversation. Shorty switches his attention to the concrete block across the street, hears Manu confirm it's him
–
the fool with the loose mouth. They see a middle-aged businessman come out of the building, and agree it must be his wife behind. He stops to say a few parting words to her, slings his jacket over one shoulder and heads right, just as Shorty has been briefed. Manu turns to face the boy, and finds him chewing on his gum more furiously than ever. All kids were like this for a while. Trouble only happened when they grew tired of what they were doing, or figured they could call the shots, but this one has some way to go yet. Twisting round now, Manu reaches out of his window and springs the passenger door. The child lock
is
a pain, but it guards against a change of heart.

‘It's always good to be a little scared,'
is
the last thing the boy hears him say. ‘Just make it clean for the boss, if you can. You might even earn yourself that season ticket he's been promising.'

‘Believe me, nothing is more unsettling in this world than a kid with a gun.' That's what the boss says whenever he introduces me to people. I've never found myself on the wrong side of a piece, not for real. Then again, I suppose you could say I'm the kind of kid people fear.

‘An adult is aware of the consequences,' he'll continue, so softly you almost have to hold your breath in case you miss something. ‘He's likely to hesitate before pulling the trigger, or scale down the hit and just scare the sucker instead. A boy doesn't think like that. You give him a job, he'll get it done, no question. Why?' He always pauses here (or pats me on the head if I'm standing right beside him), ‘Because a boy is aware of the consequences if he
doesn't
see it through.'

My boss has the quietest voice you ever heard. Some say that it sounds like a deathly whisper, which is why he is known as
El Fantasma
– The Ghost. It also means that when he speaks, everybody listens. I need a gun in my hand before I can earn the same attention, or some money wrapped up in a band. The first time I told my mother that she no longer needed to go out each night to work, she just blinked at me. It didn't matter how many times I said I could take care of things, my presence in the apartment was all she seemed to take in.

Things changed once she had time to think. Now, if I place some cash on the table, Mamá clutches her forehead with one hand and blames herself for all kinds of things. If Uncle Jairo is in earshot then he'll get involved, too. My uncle has bad lungs, which is why he's always so frustrated and short-tempered. He reminds her I'm thirteen this year, almost a man. If I'm so smart and wise with words like he's always hearing, then why hadn't she sacrificed everything to keep me off the streets, huh? So shut up for once, he'll spit, and let your son repay us for bringing him up. Sometimes Mamá will start wailing, which makes him scream bad things at her before panicking because he's mislaid his inhaler. By then, I can't even remember the point she'd been trying to make.
El Fantasma
wouldn't allow things to get out of hand like that. He always has complete control of any situation, whether he's scolding his guards or telling a funny story. He would make a great coach, I think. Give him eleven men, and within a season he'd shape them up into God's own team.

The boss has always known me as Shorty. It's something I got called one time and annoyingly it stuck like gum to a shoe. It just doesn't suit any position on the pitch, you know? If Shorty were in goal, you'd simply aim high to get the ball in the back of the net. Place the little guy in defence, or midfield, it would be a question of using your legs to outrun him. I suppose it doesn't sound so bad for an attacking player, but not as proud and formidable as Sonny, my real name. A memorable striker needs no surname, and Sonny just says it all.

…
the ball swings up to Sonny, and the crowd are on their feet! The whole of Medellín are behind him. He's passed one, two, and he shoots
…

It was Papa who named me, two months before I was born. I'm told he was utterly convinced that he would have a son. My mother claims he even described how I would look as I grew up. According to her, he hasn't been wrong so far. If this is true, he must also have been aware that he would never see his predictions made flesh. All I know for sure is that Papa had to leave home in a hurry, though nobody ever explained why. It could've been the cops were after him, or maybe the cartel. I've learned not to ask any more. It just makes people angry – or sad. Either way, it must have taken a lot of courage, saying goodbye to his wife and unborn child. Only a brave man could make that kind of sacrifice. I just hope he foresaw that I would inherit his great courage.

…
Gooooaaaallllll!!!!!!

El Fantasma
shares my passion for soccer as well as for Nacional. I heard he is on personal terms with the trainer there, and has a seat in a bullet-proof box. The boss can handle a ball too, even if he is a little chubby in the face and waist. He likes to play with one touch, just like our national side. Some say it's an arrogant style, but if the team play as one it can be deadly.

‘Always keep the ball moving,' he tells me. ‘You can't afford to give the opposition time to react. If the dust has settled and you still have possession, you're in trouble.'