Thirteen (13 page)

“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.”

Inside, things were more formal. “We know that Adam's parents, unfortunately, are in hospital, so we hope that you, Mrs. James, can act as the
appropriate adult
.”

Things moved quickly. It was as if Adam was sliding down ice, unable to stop himself. Bland questions came first, but Adam's answers soon led to the intruders, and then the gun. Chief Inspector Hatfield didn't seem interested in the intruders. Adam was the one who had killed. The words
then I pulled the trigger
made Megan's mum gasp. Adam stopped himself from saying
twice
.

After a second or two, Hatfield asked, “How many times?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Adam.

He hates me
, Adam thought.
He thinks I'm a wicked criminal
. “Twice,” he mumbled.

Another gasp from Megan's mum.

It was as if the police already knew all the answers. Then more questions came about the gun.

“Have you used it on anyone else?”

“Who told you how to use it?”

Then: “We found another gun.”

And: “Did you shoot your father?”

Adam felt the full influence of panic. “No. There was this man. And that's not all . . .” He decided to explain everything, even about the festival.

But at exactly that moment Chief Inspector Hatfield decided to pause. “I think we should let Adam have a break before we continue. Mrs. James, Adam is going to have to be remanded in custody, so I'd like to keep him in a room while we adjourn.”

Mrs. James looked at the floor. “Don't worry, Adam. I'll see what we can do.”

Don't worry
, Adam repeated in his mind. The words were like fingernails scratching down a blackboard.

Remanded in custody meant that Adam was put in what amounted to a cell. He stared at the chipped walls and the metal letter box set at eye level within the door. After about ten minutes, Chief Inspector Hatfield returned to him with a different policewoman.

“Adam. This is a serious offense, and we have to take you to a different place for questioning. Mr. and Mrs. James and your friend Megan have to travel separately. As you know, you
are
under arrest.”

Adam was depressed rather than upset. He still hadn't had a chance to explain things. When he did, it would all be okay. At least he was safe from the lunatics.

Passing a number of adults who looked away or glanced down, Adam was escorted out and into Chief Inspector Hatfield's car.

He sat in the back with the policewoman. She looked friendly, about his mother's age.

“The station is some distance from here, but you'll be fine. Try to relax.”

Adam pushed himself back in the seat.

“You're next to Officer Wright,” said the chief inspector. “But you can call her Marcia.”

Chief Inspector Hatfield started to drive.

Megan again insisted that she stay.

This time her mother was less sympathetic. “Why don't you go home and meet Adam later at the hospital?” Then, quieter: “Supposing he's allowed to see his parents.”

“When Adam explains he'll be a hero,” Megan said. “You should have more faith in him.”

“Megan!” her mother barked. “Your father and I should have cooled this . . . this . . . 
relationship
with Adam weeks ago.”

“We're just friends! Don't be so stupid.” Megan glared, then stalked out, chased by her father, with her mother's parting shout—“How dare you!”—receding into the distance.

Megan's cell phone sat at home, dull black, unlit, unattended.

Adam breathed out slowly, gazing at cars lining up in the opposite direction. Adam only knew the name of one other London police station—Paddington Green, where terrorists were taken—so thought that his situation must be serious if he had to be transferred.

“Which station is it we're going to?” he said to Chief Inspector Hatfield.

“Oh, one outside London that deals with minors.”

Adam noticed a sign for Brent Cross, which he knew was just by the M1, the main road heading north.

“Is it far?”

The woman next to him said, “It's a bit of a journey, so just relax.”

Somewhere in the back of Adam's mind a flicker of concern was briefly lit, but then he closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was somewhere, anywhere else.

Mr. James drove Megan home in aggressive silence. Worry and anger weighed heavily inside her. She leaped out as soon as the car stopped and stood impatiently by the front door.

“Megan, I've never known you like this,” her father said.

“No?”

As soon as the front door was open she ran to her room, slammed the door and fell onto her bed.

Lying on her left elbow, Megan could see what remained of Adam's house. It looked like a blackened shipwreck: wooden beams poked skywards; rubble lapped round the edges. A handful of police and fire officers drifted around. Yellow tape swam in the breeze.

Megan felt her head start to spin. She looked at her clock. Nearly five.

Adam opened his eyes. The car had slowed nearly to a stop. Through the windshield he saw the back of a large green truck.

“How far now?” he said.

“Just a junction or two,” said the woman.

Adam could see fields to the left and right. “Will I be able to see my parents today?”

“Perhaps. If you're good,” she said.

If you're good
.

The flicker of concern grew.

“Where is this police station?”

Chief Inspector Hatfield looked in the mirror at Adam. “As I said,
Adam
, it's not far.”

If you're good
. That sounded odd.
Where are we?

The green truck was pulling away and they were gaining speed, moving into the outside lane. A sign whisked past: Services One Mile.

“I need the toilet. Can we stop?”

Adam glanced at the clock: 5:13 p.m. It was getting late.

Megan wondered what was happening with Adam. She looked at her bedside clock: 5:13 p.m.

She remembered her phone and reached into her bedside drawer. She switched it on. The name of the cell phone provider appeared, then a screen full of icons. Just as she was about to key in her mother's number, it pinged several times. Two texts were from Rachel, one from the cell phone company, one from her friend Karen and one from an unknown number. It was the last message that caught her eye. It started: “Tell Adam.”

She scrolled down. Thirteen words.

“Tell Adam that Hatfield is evil. Don't trust him. Ask for another officer.”

No name, no explanation. Evil? Not “bad”:
evil
.

The car sped past the services.

“I
said
that we need to stop,” spat Adam. “Please pull over now.”

“Don't worry, we'll be there soon,” said the woman, Marcia.

“Stop this bloody car—now!”

“Shut the hell up. Sit still, keep quiet. Marcia, keep him settled,” said the chief inspector.

She reached out.

“This isn't right. I want to get out now. Get your hands off me.”

The car sped up: eighty miles per hour.

Eighty-five miles per hour.

The chief inspector laughed. “You're welcome to open the door and get out any time you like.”

Ninety miles per hour.

Marcia looked quite different now. Intimidating, crafty, sly. “Keep quiet and I won't have to hurt you.”

The road was clearer and the car hurtled on.

“Mum, where's Adam?”

“The police have taken him off to investigate something. He's with the same policeman, the nice one who was doing the interview.”

“Mum, he's in dreadful danger.”

“Don't be silly again, Megan. The police will look after him.”

Chief Inspector Hatfield flashed his lights and the car in front pulled into the middle lane. Adam could tell that they were traveling much faster than normal: the cars around them were probably going eighty and they were being overtaken with ease, each one making a zipping sound as it was passed.

Adam saw a blur that was the crash barrier.

“I'm calm. You can slow down now,” he said, pushing forward slightly. “Really. I'm calm. See?”

Adam wriggled so that he was leaning between the front seats. He could see the speedometer on the far side. Ninety miles per hour. “I'll be good.”

His hand slipped across the back seat toward the policewoman.

“I'm calm.”

He unclicked Marcia's seat belt.

Immediately Adam thrashed out wildly, beating at both adults: he felt his right leg and arm make contact with Marcia. But it was his left arm that he concentrated on. From his position behind the passenger's seat, it was that arm he swung four times at Hatfield.

Adam's first strike had the benefit of surprise: it caught the driver in the eye and made the car swerve and ride against the
central barrier in a cloud of sparks. There was a crunch and a high-pitched squeak. The side mirror was beaten off and clattered into a van driving behind them. The car rattled and shook.

Adam struck again, hitting jaw—too low. The car swerved back—Hatfield overcompensating, trying to keep at least one hand on the wheel—and edged into the middle lane. A motorcycle braked sharply.

Adam's right hand flailed at Marcia, his right foot stamped and kicked.

The third time Adam struck, his palm opened, nothing more than a slap. But with his thumb against Hatfield's ear, he dug a finger into his eye. Desperation made Adam's hand rigid like iron.

Both hands briefly left the steering wheel.

Adam no longer cared what happened: his fear was a bubble that hid him from logic and judgement.

The car veered to the left, crossing two lanes, and then careened back to the middle. Other drivers braked and honked.

As Hatfield turned, Adam struck a fourth time, grabbing hold of his throat.
They want to kill me!

Chief Inspector Hatfield struggled to keep his right hand on the steering wheel. His foot hit the brake.

Marcia shouted something.

Time slowed.

Then the car began to drift slowly to the left, toward a truck parked on the hard shoulder.

Slowly, ever so slowly . . .

the car began to spin . . .

slowly. . . .

Just for a second, less than a second, Hatfield completely lost control of the car.

And

And

And

SMASH
.

The impact was sudden. A jolt came first, then noise, then silence. The car had spun more than once and thumped into the rear of a trailer.

Metal crunched against metal; glass exploded into the car.

Adam had seen the red expanse race toward them. What first seemed slow and balletic had suddenly rushed to a
thump
and
smash
. Adam was lifted up out of his seat, and his seat belt dug into his shoulder. Marcia was thrown hard into the ceiling and door.

She died instantly, the investigators said later. No seat belt. At the impact speed of sixty-seven miles per hour she was more likely to die than to live.

Chief Inspector Hatfield, seated on the side of the impact, was probably saved by turning toward Adam, but his right shoulder and leg had been badly bruised, and blood dribbled from a head wound. Cuts on the right side of his face looked like an angry game of tic-tac-toe.

Adam couldn't hear anything. Outside he saw a blurred world full of stationary cars and people approaching silently, like lunar explorers.

A man and a woman rushed to Adam's door. “There's a kid
in here.” Then they saw Marcia beyond him. Quieter: “Oh no. I think his mother's dead.”

Suddenly noise and clarity returned to Adam. “I want to get out,” he mumbled. “Get me out.”

Chief Inspector Hatfield moaned and flopped an arm toward Adam. “Stop him. Help me out. Help me.”

Gas started to fall onto the tarmac, just a drop or two at first, then a steady trickle.

“Get them out!” someone shouted. But the doors would not open.

Smoke and steam rose from the hood.

A man leaned in through the passenger window. Hatfield was already dragging himself across and was hauled out. Adam put his arms up and was halfway through his window. He wished that his body wasn't so floppy.

Underneath the car, gas started to snake toward the tiny sparks that dropped from the engine.

“Son, you're going to be fine,” a man's voice said. Adam was shaken; scratches and bruises covered him, but adrenaline still ran in torrents. He stood up, tottering at first, but then, with his legs further apart, more steadily.