Thirteen (5 page)

Most days come and go and are forgotten, lost in the patchy smog that is the past. But every now and again one rises above this drifting haze, and Wednesday, October 16, was such a day for Adam and Megan.

After school, Adam was crossing the playground with Asa, who was delivering another lecture on Call of Duty and whether it really would be best to kill zombies with a Colt M1911, when a group of year sevens having a kick-about knocked a ball into his path. Adam was as good as anyone in year nine at football, so when the ball came toward him, he sent it like a comet back across the playground.

There was a dreadful inevitability about what happened next.

Emerging from the shed-like classroom, known to all as the Mobile, was Madame Dubois, the French teacher. She was talking to Megan's friend, Rachel Meyer, a girl adored by teachers almost as much as by boys, despite having a tendency to slack off.

Madame Dubois seemed determined to stand at exactly the point where the ball was going to land. It flew through the air and hit her square on the forehead, then ricocheted into the nearest pane of glass.

“You couldn't do that again if you tried,” said Asa. “What a strike!”

“Oh no,” mumbled Adam. The year sevens were looking on in admiration: to do this
and
beat up Jake Taylor—well, that made Adam Grant a hero, almost a god.

“Why can't you keep your bloody ball to yourself?” Adam said to his admirers, who loved that he swore despite the arrival of Mr. Sterling, though Adam had not seen him striding over.

“Adam Grant,” the deputy head muttered, slightly indistinctly, “you will assist with the cleanup operation and apologize to Madame Dubois.” He then added, after a pause, “Your
latest
victim.”

Asa had run over to check on the wellbeing of Rachel Meyer and, in passing, Madame Dubois.

Megan insisted on staying while Adam helped carry the boards to cover the hole. Asa left carrying Rachel's bag and chuckling at everything she said. Madame Dubois retreated to the staff room and drank peppermint tea.

The boy who swept the playground came over with a hammer and nails. He avoided eye contact. The kids tended to sneer at such characters.

As he stretched to hold the wood in place, Megan noticed a deep scar, about as long as her hand, on the boy's neck. But this thought was tangled up with so many others. In any case, this boy looked rough, the sort of person Megan's parents warned her to keep away from.

Eventually Adam and Megan wandered off, the last to leave school.

“Come on,” said Megan. “Let's go home the long way, past the kiosk in the park. We've got half an hour, and I kept a fiver from the weekend.”

It was this decision that proved to be the most important of the afternoon.

Adam and Megan sat on one of the picnic tables behind the kiosk. Megan was looking at Adam. She
really
liked the way he was still slightly sunburned on his nose, though she didn't understand why that appealed. They chatted about Asa and Rachel, but were thinking about themselves.

“Don't say anything to anyone, but she thinks that boy in year eleven is really fit. You know, the swimmer.”

Adam was so absorbed in Megan and her conversation that he didn't consider jealousy. “Yes. He's pretty hench, I suppose. But Asa really fancies Rachel.”

Looking over Adam's shoulder for an instant, Megan saw something that made her frown. Two or three trees back, half hidden, someone was watching them. Then a parade of
images came at her like photographs falling from an album: the guy by the bushes, the boy on the bench, the young man in the shop. The cleaner at school! And the person looking at them now. They were one and the same. Other indistinct pictures and vague outlines were also scattered in the corners of her mind.

She went pale and looked down. “Adam, I've noticed something.”

Adam wiped his face, fearing a booger. But Megan wasn't joking around.

“Adam, we're being watched, and have been for some time. It's the guy from school, you know, the one that sweeps the playground. How creepy!”

Adam knew Megan well enough to realize she wasn't messing about, so he didn't argue or ask for an explanation. He trusted her completely. “Okay, let's go. It's getting late anyway.” But he couldn't resist glancing around.

And that was when the older boy decided to make his move.

As Adam and Megan scurried across the field toward the ponds and the gate beyond, the boy dashed along the path, quickly overtaking dog walkers, parents with strollers and occasional clusters of kids. One or two people tutted and glared as he pushed past, but all seemed to think that he was someone best left alone.

Adam and Megan broke into a run. “This is stupid,” Megan panted. “Why don't we get someone to help?”

But at this point, by the first pond, everyone seemed to have melted away.

In his black tracksuit, the boy looked threatening, exactly like the sort of person Adam and Megan had heard stories about. Young enough to want to beat them up, but old enough to . . . They didn't like to think about it. “Come
on
,” Megan said, tugging on Adam's arm.

Adam had stopped momentarily, thinking he would stay and fight—mainly to impress Megan—but anger had not mastered
his fear. The boy after them had the build of a man. And he was getting closer. So Adam followed Megan along the curved path between the trees and ponds, away from the gate, heading for a hole in the fence that came out onto Park Avenue, opposite the Green Dragon pub. They would never get there before the boy caught up. Adam reached out to stop her. “Meg, he'll get to us.”

Megan stepped into the pond and started wading across. The water only came up to their thighs, and it made the route to the exit much, much shorter. As they stepped out on the far side and dashed between the bushes beyond, their pursuer arrived on the path, barely fifteen yards away. If they had been just a bit faster, he might never have seen them slip away. But he did, and he also waded in. “Stop!” he shouted.

On the other side of the pond, Adam and Megan darted through the bushes. Older kids sometimes used this area, and debris littered the undergrowth: cigarette ends, a bottle, some cans, plastic bags.

Suddenly, they reached the gap in the fence and the bright late-afternoon sunlight of Park Avenue beyond. And there, a huge red savior, with doors open and a driver telling them, “Now 'urry up if you're gonna get on”—the number thirteen bus.

Perfect.

They leaped on, hearts thumping with the euphoria of escape. They swiped bus passes, the doors closed, and the bus quickly pulled away.

The older boy stumbled onto the street, looked left and right, and sank to his knees.

On the bus, Adam and Megan sat downstairs at the back, trousers and skirt dripping wet, shoes squelching. Bubbles of water appeared on the floor as Adam pushed his feet down. They talked, half reflecting on the action, half considering what they would do and who they would tell.

Then Adam, still annoyed that he had not been braver and dealt with this character in the same way he had dealt with Jake
Taylor, did something that required equal nerve. He put his left arm around Megan's shoulder. He wouldn't have done it normally, of course, but the excitement made him irrational.

Megan didn't pull away. She turned her head toward Adam.

His chest felt full of electricity, and tight, like china about to crack. He pushed his lips to Megan's—just for a second, perhaps two—until the bus pulled up with a slight jolt. It had arrived at their stop.

Coron stood before the assembly. Almost one hundred people sat before him: women to the left, men to the right and children in the center. The People.

Coron rarely shouted. His voice was soft, even gentle, like a calming stream. But when he did shout he was thunder and excitement. It wasn't what Coron said that drew people in, nor even how he said it—it was Coron himself. He knew. He knew the past and the future; he read thoughts and understood emotions; he explained doubts and soothed fears; his approval inspired; his anger destroyed.

To be alongside him was to share in glory and victory.

Many had joined The People, especially in the early days, because they had heard Coron speak. He stood on corners and spoke to shoppers. He sidled up to lonely individuals in bus stations and tearooms. He also visited the meetings of extreme political groups, a pool which had spawned some important members.

But, increasingly, recruits were children. Some were the sons and daughters of members. Others had been taken from the streets: young runaways, mistreated girls, neglected and beaten boys—those who wanted something new and safe. A
routine. Discipline. The younger the better, Coron said to those who went out to fish for new members. Adults are dangerous, corrupted, their motives and desires twisted like old tree roots. Children—those thirteen years and younger—are much better: innocent, teachable, spirited.

Once a week Coron addressed all of The People. He never prepared, never used notes. He spoke as the Master instructed him.

“The Master's work in heaven is almost complete. He directed his righteous army of angels against the deceiver who sat on the throne. The old god has been defeated; the New God, the Master, is about to take his place. And what has happened in heaven is about to be repeated on earth.

“People in the world are like stones, unaware of what is happening, lying in the mud, senseless and stupid. They don't live as we do; their lives are worth no more than rough soil. They are slaves, shuffling from work to sleep, trapped in a machine that dulls and controls. I have seen them, drifting around the streets, drugged by dull television and confused music. Not us—we are free servants of a glorious master! We are taught and guided—we are unique. We are alive!

“To be alone in the world is to be an angry infant: unsettled, untrained, uncomfortable. To be one of The People is to be special, rewarded and free.

“Yes, we are trained, led by a fair and righteous master. We are to be kings! Yes, you will rule, and you will be honored, needed . . . loved.

“And that time is very near. Yes, I tell you now: our rule will begin at the moment that the Imposter is dead. Soon we will leave here and take our rightful place.

“We are the only people who are truly alive!”

Those who listened to Coron sat in silent excitement, thrilled by their knowledge and its contrast with the blind world outside.

Later, in the cellar that had become a dark chapel, Coron held his arms at right angles so that his raised cloak looked like black wings. His palms were outstretched, revealing deep, neat scars. His eyes were closed and a mumble came from his fast-moving lips.

Then he spoke clearly: “I beg to hear your instructions, Master.”

The room was in near-darkness, lit only by thirteen large candles. Two figures knelt on either side of Coron; they were also dressed in black and had closed eyes. In front of them was a stone table—an altar—with a leather-bound book in the middle.

Coron repeated himself: “I beg to hear your instructions, Master.”

Coron squinted and saw burning pebble eyes slowly melt out of the gloom, then a wrinkled face, deeply lined like an old man's, then hair, in long tufts, and then a thin, bony body almost covered by a cloak.

Coron did not pretend this. Yet no spirit stood in front of him. The demon was a shadowy production, a sort of echo, of Coron's sick mind. Madness is imaginative—far more so than sanity.

“Master, we have done your will. Only Adam remains.”

The vision roared. “HE MUST DIE! The Imposter still prevents us taking our place of honor. You must burn him off the page. This boy must die before he comes of age.”

Before he comes of age. Before he turns fourteen.

Most people keep their darkest thoughts in locked vaults, but Coron's mind was a castle with open doors. He explored his madness and searched in its corners for bony scraps of evil to gnaw on.

The vision spoke again: “Death must embrace the Imposter.”

“Master. What else?”

“Time is now short, and still the work is undone. Those who have failed must be punished properly.”

Coron's mind danced to Dorm Thirteen. The place of punishment. His thoughts, though unformed, shrieked at him.

“Yes. Yes.”

A heavy door opened behind Coron and a whimpering could be heard.

Coron did not need to turn round. “Master,” he said, “we have something to offer you.”

On Thursday, October 17, Adam and his parents sat in front of the headmistress, Mrs. Tavistock.

“Mr. and Mrs. Grant, I can assure you that this young man went through all the usual checks, and if he turns up at school I will ask him to explain himself,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

The trombone-like tones of Mr. Sterling broke in. “We won't see him today.” A gray haze of whiskers covered his pale, slightly sagging skin. His shirt had not been ironed.