Thirteen (24 page)

Using a flashlight, crawling across the loft room, she moved to Simon's bedroom area, made cell-like by the sloping roof. It was almost certainly above a different flat, but it was hard to work out the distances.
If only
she had a drill that could cut a hole . . . in silence . . . and without the need for electricity.

It was hopeless. Even if she broke through the tiles, there was an enormous and fatal drop. Megan considered tying together sheets from the bed. She didn't have enough sheets, the knots would never hold, and even if they did she would have to rappel down without a harness or safety net.
If only
there was a fire escape.

She thought of Adam's message again, closed her eyes and let out a quiet, desperate sigh.

She would have to wait. But her guards were equally patient.
The voices changed, sometimes one, sometimes two, but every hour she faintly heard a telephone call sent from the flat below. Megan slept in short bursts. She silently plucked what she could from the tiny fridge but dared not light the gas stove. Then she turned to cornflakes straight from the box. She silently sucked them one at a time by flashlight, careful not to make any noise.

She always hoped that the next hour would bring silence downstairs. It never did.

Time slipped by. Twelve, then twenty-four, then forty-eight long hours. Adam's death crept closer. She was desperate. In less than twenty-four hours it would be the New Year.

Adam thought about holding Coron and Hatfield down and punching them. He could imagine punching a bully like Jake, but only if he lost his temper or had to, and he winced at the idea of kicking someone who was helpless. But it was different with these two men: if the time came, he would not go quietly.

But he must not let Coron know this.

Adam grew more and more ambitious in his show of devotion to the Master: he went into trances, threw himself to the floor and even acted as the Master's mouthpiece by spouting lines from Coron's book. He scratched his own chest, leaving crude red etchings, which he claimed were a punishment, and, on one occasion, a message. Dribbling, he gave a frenzy of praise to Coron, whose devotion to the Master did not prevent an enjoyment of personal flattery that was close to worship.

Adam was thinking of how to exploit the trust he had earned, probably by claiming that the Master did not actually want his death, when Viper came in.

Adam hated Viper as well, but he couldn't imagine hurting her in the same way. He knew that she was as evil as them, and she had a fondness for small acts of cruelty that went beyond theirs, but this inner darkness was wrapped in beauty. Whenever she pretended to be friendly, Adam found himself wanting to forgive her. He couldn't help himself.

She came in and sat on his bed, the door still open. “We still can't find your old friend. Any ideas?”

Adam didn't answer.

“Do you prefer her to me?”

“You know that I like you.” Adam was not entirely lying.

Viper took his right hand and put it on her shoulder, guiding it up to her neck. She then picked up his other hand and smiled. “This is your chance to kiss me.”

Adam looked at her eyes and lips. Beauty is the most powerful mask.

Then Viper pushed him away, but let her hand linger on his chest for a moment.
It's all a game to her
, Adam thought.

“Where is that red band, the one around your wrist?” she said.

“I lost it,” Adam said.

“Where?”

“It must have dropped off.” He shrugged. “Maybe it's under the bed.”

“I've seen you touching it and looking at it. I think it came from Megan, or possibly your parents. Why would you
lose
it now?”

Adam had to say it, though it sounded to him like the crap it was. “I'm more interested in the Master and serving him.”

The house was very busy as the New Year approached. Viper shouted for someone passing to ask Lord Coron to come. She was the only person who would dare do such a thing.

Adam made a play of searching for the band and Viper looked briefly in the shower room opposite. Within a few minutes Coron joined them. He no longer needed to conjure the Master up; he believed him present all of the time, as real as any person.

“I think,” said Viper, standing next to Coron, “that this boy may be cleverer than we give him credit for. I think he may have left something when we went on our little trip.”

Adam stood, shouting, “Lord Coron, check with the Master.
I have lost a mere . . . thing, a thing that doesn't mean anything to me. I have the Master to think about, and that I'm going to be killed.”

“I don't like your shouting. It's
killed
, is it? I thought it was
sacrificed
. The Master is shaking his head.” Coron was unable to stand still.

“I meant sacrificed,” Adam said.
Don't look guilty
.

Coron turned to Viper. “Get them to have another good look around that flat. See if there is a dropped wristband. And I think Adam can stay here and prepare himself for his
sacrifice
.”

The men in Simon's flat did eight-hour shifts, frustrated that they had not been able to please Lord Coron and the Master. The tools of capture were waiting, including handcuffs and tape.

The message came to check the flat thoroughly again, an order, it was said, from the Master himself. As day slid into evening, the man on duty took three hours to minutely examine the property: first the sitting room and kitchen, then the bathroom, then the bedroom.

A plug lay on the floor under the bed. With finger and thumb he followed the cable until it snaked under the carpet. . . . Then he ripped up the tacks. . . . He followed the wire as it ran above the floorboards and up the wall, behind a cheap plastic cover. . . . And disappeared into the ceiling.

Looking up, he frowned: there was a thin outline of a square in the ceiling. The loft had been checked, but the Master's instructions were clear—and the Master might be watching. Teetering on the edge of the bed, he scraped at the hatch, but it wouldn't open.

Up in the loft, Megan heard scuffing.
Oh my God
.

The man fetched a chair and shoved twice with his hands. The lock suddenly gave away: the hatch squeaked up and then down, and a ladder appeared. He dragged it down and wandered back to get the flashlight.

Megan saw his head appear, tortoise-like, lit from underneath.
She hesitated.
It's his head! This is one of the worst moments in my life
. Then the consequences of being caught burst into her mind.

The man pushed the torch through the top of the gap. “What the . . . ?”

He shone the torch around the room: a small fridge, a chair—hell! He saw sneakers and jeans.

Megan brought the frying pan crashing down with all her strength. She expected there to be a sickening crunch and thud instead of a bonging sound. Then there was a rush of noise as the man fell down the steps of the ladder. He lay on the floor, groaning and confused, but certainly alive.

Megan scuttled down the ladder as the man raised himself up off the carpet like a lumbering sea monster. She had to do it again. This time there was an uglier sound, and there was blood: Megan could see a steady trickle running from the man's misshapen nose and onto the floor. He was not moving; perhaps he was dead.

She grabbed his flashlight, avoiding his gun—a gun!—and quickly went back up the steps, collecting her coat and with it the bits and pieces she had prepared during her long wait. She stepped over the man, avoiding the blood. He let out a tiny moan.

Megan knew what she was going to do. There was a police station about five streets away on the western side of the park. She would go there and explain the situation: then the police would find the man in the flat and see his gun.
Thank God it is almost over
, Megan thought.
Adults can get involved
.

Megan jogged, passing only two people. It was a chilly night best spent inside. With two streets to go, she waited to let a taxi and a minibus pass before crossing an intersection. The man in the newsagent's opposite was closing up, collecting a metal board. Megan could see the headline: “‘Kidnap' Girl Wanted in Connection with Murders.”

She raced across. Inside the door on the right were a few
papers that hadn't sold. Megan's picture was clearly on the front. Inspector Hatfield was prominently featured, as well as an assistant commissioner. The police were saying that she was on the run with Adam; she could see the phrase “a young Bonnie and Clyde,” attributed to Hatfield. There was a shaded box underneath, with the title “When Children Kill Children.”

She dropped the paper and ran.

Coron showed Adam his hands. “Look—they're bleeding again. Just like thirteen years ago. But this time the blood will water our new kingdom. And not only my blood. Yours!” He leaned forward as he laughed softly. “And the blood of others. Those who do not celebrate the Master but celebrate your birthday.”

“They're just enjoying themselves. It has nothing to do with me, you mental bastard. It's New Year's. No one knows or cares that this is my birthday. You're insane.” Adam had given up his pretense and was tied to the bed again. They had worked out that somehow he had helped Megan.

“I would like to damage you,” said Coron, “for your deception. But you will be lifted up in front of all of London as the perfect sacrifice. At the moment you become an adult, after twelve strikes of the bell, the blood will pour from your body.”

Adam carried on. “People will never follow an evil nutter like you. People are good.”

Coron laughed hysterically. “Three hours.”

Viper walked in.

“Here's another bloody lunatic,” shouted Adam, straining to get up.

Coron grabbed Adam's lips so that he couldn't speak. He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “I will be on the mountaintop
with you. Viper will also be there. She has the honor of pressing the button that will set London ablaze. Thirteen
so-called
landmarks, all destroyed. This city will never be the same again. Out of this will arise my kingdom. It is written.”

Adam roared through Coron's tightening hands.

“Go on—cry out! We have been planning tonight for two years. Twelve different locations, and you will be at the thirteenth. It will happen. IT IS WRITTEN.”

Hatfield was responsible for binding Adam so that he couldn't escape. Adam struggled; it took four men to cuff his hands in front of him and wrap tape over his mouth and around the back of his head. Death had now cast its fearful shadow over him. Adam certainly would have shouted and screamed if he could.

He was thrown to the floor and rolled over and over as a thick carpet encircled him. Adam wriggled, but it was like being wedged inside a pipe. Then he felt his head dip as he went down steps. Revelers cavorted past, waving their arms and cheering, unaware that four men were dropping a boy into the back of a van. Adam made a deep humming sound, something like an animal in pain; no one was listening.

The van drove across London through happy, oblivious crowds, followed by a Range Rover. Coron smiled as he considered how the bombs and receivers had gone into place: one nudged behind the bell mechanism in Big Ben by a man leading a tour group, another slid under a table in Buckingham Palace by a woman with a vacuum cleaner, a third left tied to the outside of Tower Bridge by a man polishing windows. . . . Twelve dull white packages and wires linked to a receiver.

Coron tapped the transmitter in his hand and passed it to Viper. “You may have the honor,” he said. She smiled.

Adam could twist slightly inside his cocoon, but no more. Fear rose inside him:
I don't want to die. I'm so young. I'm good, I'm kind. Why me?

And anger:
Maybe I should have done things differently.
Maybe I could have run. Why couldn't Simon kill Coron? Why did I try to rescue Megan and save my parents? Why doesn't someone care enough to rescue me? Why did my real mother give me away? Why me?

A little hope:
Surely there will be someone I can call to. Surely I will have a chance to run away. Surely I won't die
.

Adam felt the slope as they dipped into a car park underneath the tallest building in London. Then he was being moved again, dragged from the van and carried sideways for a couple of minutes. Then upright for about twenty seconds. There was a tiny jolt. A lift? He could hear a whirring noise. Then carried sideways for a short time and upright again for longer—another lift? After further movement he felt himself toppling over and landed on his left shoulder. He wriggled slightly, then lay still, listening, the carpet pressed against his nose.

He could hear the sound of voices, and of glass being smashed. Then he was nudged with a foot and the carpet unrolled, tumbling him out on to a wooden floor.

Wind howled into the large, bare apartment, blowing tiny flecks of glass across the floor. Coron stood where the floor-to-ceiling window would have been, a sledgehammer at his feet. Two long ropes, about six feet apart, dangled out of the window, attached at one end to metal supports in the ceiling. “Welcome to the mountain,” he said. The wind blew his hair erratically, making it writhe like snakes.

Adam noticed the transmitter in Viper's hand.

“Yes,” she said. “Midnight. Six minutes.”

Outside the apartment, a guard stood with his arms folded. He looked toward the window at the end of the corridor, city lights twinkling below, the London Eye slowly edging around.
Tonight the world changes
, he thought. Then, reflected in the window, the man saw the outline of a small person holding a gun.

He heard a sound and there was a searing pain in his lower back. His left hand returned covered in crimson.
Blood?
He
found himself being barged over, and his hands were pulled back and cuffed. Blood seeped from his side. He choked slightly, trying to speak.