iBoy

by Kevin Brooks

  I gazed up into the starless night, and all I could see was a boundless world of darkness and emptiness . . . but I knew it wasn’t empty. The sky, the atmosphere, the air, the night . . . the whole world was alive with radio waves. They were everywhere, all around me, all the time — TV signals, radio signals, mobile-phone signals . . . WiFi, microwaves, VHF, UHF . . . electromagnetic waves.

  They were everywhere.

  And although I couldn’t see them, I could sense them. I could connect to them. I knew them.

  I closed my eyes and tuned in, at random, to a mobile-phone call: . . . it’s just past the post office in the High Street, someone was saying. You go past the post office and there’s a pub, and it’s just there.

  What pub? someone else said. The George?

  No, that’s on the other side of the road . . .

  And another random conversation: . . . why not? You said it’d be all right if I didn’t do it again.

  Yeah, I know, but you did . . .

  And another: . . . take the fucker down, innit? He can’t fucking do that, I’ll fucking pop the fucker . . .

  Someone, somewhere, was sending an email to someone called Sheila, telling her that unless she sorted herself out, she wouldn’t be seeing her baby again. Someone else was emailing someone in Coventry from a supposedly untraceable email address . . . but I could trace it. the bio is easy, it read. anyone can make a germ bottle and drop it in the water supply and kill 100000. the martyr would commit himself leaving no trace of j involvement.

  And someone else was texting a really obnoxious message to a girl called Andrea, saying all kinds of nasty things to her . . .

  And on the web . . . God, there was a whole world on the web. A world of so many things — good things, bad things, dull things, mad things — it was just like the real world. Just as wonderful, just as beautiful . . . but also just as vile and sick and heartbreaking.

  I stopped scanning.

  There was too much going on out there, too much bad stuff, and I didn’t know how to cope with it all. All the stuff I knew, but didn’t want to know . . . everything that wasn’t good, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t fair . . . I knew it. And I knew that I could do something about it . . . or, at least, I could do something about some of it. I mean, for example, I could find out who’d sent that obnoxious text message to Andrea, and why they’d sent it, and I could find out where they lived, and I could go and see them and try to persuade them that sending obnoxious text messages is a really shitty thing to do. But then what about the millions of other bad things, the things that are a million times worse than sending shitty text messages — the abuses, the terrors, the sick things that people do to each other — the things that I wouldn’t be able to do anything about because I’d be too busy trying to help Andrea, like terrorist plots to kill 100,000 people with a biological weapon . . . ?

  What was I supposed to do about them?

  I couldn’t do everything, could I?

  I wasn’t God.

  I was just a kid . . .

  And besides, I told myself, at least you’re trying to do something about some of the bad stuff, the stuff that happened to Lucy . . . and that’s a hell of a lot more than God ever does. I mean, God does fuck all, doesn’t he? He just sits there, luxuriating in all his superpowers, demanding to be adored . . .

  It was 22:42:44 now, and the night was getting colder. I pulled up my hood and turned on my iSkin, warming myself with the electric heat . . . and as I gazed down over the edge of the roof, I wondered what I looked like from down below — a softly glowing figure, sitting cross-legged on the top of a tower block . . .

  Like some kind of weird hooded Buddha . . .

  A skinny, glow-in-the-dark iBuddha.

  Or maybe an iGargoyle.

  I closed my eyes again and opened up my Facebook page. There were two messages from aGirl: an old one that said have you gone? and a slightly longer one from five minutes ago. The longer one read:

  sorry if i asked too many questions and scared you off or anything, but i was just curious about you. you have to admit you’re kind of unusual! it’s ok, i mean you don’t have to tell me anything and i won’t ask you anything else if that’s what you want. but please don’t go away. we can just talk about things.

  aGirl

  Lucy was online right now, so I wrote back:

  no, it’s ok, you didn’t scare me away, i was just a bit busy for a while. i’m back now. so, anyway, how are you feeling? you don’t sound quite so down as before. are things a bit better for you?

  hello again, iBoy. i’m glad you’re back. no, things aren’t really any better for me, and i don’t think they ever will be, but i don’t feel quite so empty and dead anymore. i think talking helps. talking to you, of course. and i have a friend called tom who is very kind and listens to me. can i ask you something about the boy you nearly pushed out the window? do you know what he did to me?

  yes.

  were you really going to push him out?

  i don’t know. what would you think if i said yes?

  i don’t know. part of me thinks he deserves to die, but another part says no, that’s wrong. do you know what i mean?

  yes, i know exactly what you mean.

  let’s talk about something else.

  ok. what?

  where are you?

  i’m sitting in the sky.

  yeah, right. what’s your real name?

  i’ll answer that if you tell me about tom.

  what about him?

  is he your boyfriend?

  no! i’ve known tom forever, we grew up together. he’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a very close friend. i like him a lot, and i think he likes me, but i don’t think he likes me in that kind of way. he just cares for me. i care for him too. he’s quite a sad person, i think.

  maybe he likes you more than you think. maybe he just can’t work out how to tell you.

  maybe . . . what’s it to you anyway?

  nothing. i was just curious.

  all right, so i answered your question. now you answer mine. what’s your real name?

  you already know it.

  see you later.

  iBoy

  I closed myself down, opened my eyes, and carefully got to my feet. I took one last look over the edge of the roof, then I turned round and went home.

  If I were damned of body and soul,

  I know whose prayers would make me whole . . .

  Rudyard Kipling

  “Mother O’ Mine” (1891)

  Gram was in the front room watching TV when I got back. She looked as pale and worn-out as ever — her face too thin, her eyes too tired, her skin too old for her age. She wasn’t that old — fifty-four last year — but her life hadn’t been easy, and the years of struggle had taken their toll.

  She’d spent most of her life on her own.

  In the same way that I’d never known my father, my mum had never known hers. Her father had been just as unknown and absent as mine. So Gram had spent most of her adult life as either a single mother, bringing up her daughter on her own, or as a single grandmother, bringing up her dead daughter’s son on her own. And she’d done all this while trying to make a living from something which neither paid very much nor gave her any enjoyment at all.

  So I guess she was entitled to look a bit worn-out.

  “Hey, Gram,” I said, sitting down next to her. “What are you watching?”

  “Just the news,” she said, muting the TV and smiling at me. “How’s Lucy?”

  “OK, I think . . . well, kind of OK, you know . . .”

  Gram nodded. “And how about you? How’s your head?”

  “Fine . . . no problems.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “No dizziness or anything?”

  “No.”

  (Just a world of wonder and madness.)

  “Any headaches?”

  “No.”

  (Just phone calls and emails and texts an
d websites . . .)

  “You haven’t been hearing any voices, then?”

  I looked at Gram. “What?”

  She smiled. “It was a joke, Tommy.”

  “Right . . .” I said. “Yeah, very funny.”

  She put her hand on my knee. “I’m glad you’re OK, love. Really. I was so worried when you were in the hospital . . . I thought, you know . . . I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she wiped a tear from her eye. And I knew she was thinking about my mum, her daughter . . . and I could barely imagine how hard it must have been for Gram when I was in the hospital, and she was sitting with me, not knowing whether I was going to live or die . . .

  I put my arms round her neck and rested my head against hers. “Don’t worry, Gram,” I said quietly. “I’m going to be absolutely fine, I promise.”

  She smiled at me through her tears. “You’d better be.”

  “Trust me . . . I plan on living until I’m at least as old as you.”

  She laughed, playfully slapping my leg, and then she took a tissue from her pocket and started wiping the tears from her face. There were so many things I wanted to ask her then, things about my mum, but I knew that she wouldn’t want to talk about it. Gram never liked talking about what happened to Mum. It was just too much for her, I think. Too painful, too sad . . . and I understood that. Or, at least, I tried to. I mean, it was mostly OK . . . I didn’t really mind too much. And most of the time I didn’t need to know any more than the facts — i.e., that my mum had been killed by a hit-and-run driver when I was six months old.

  That was enough for me . . .

  Most of the time.

  But sometimes, like now, it wasn’t enough.

  Sometimes, for whatever reason, I felt the need to know more.

  “Gram?” I said quietly.

  She sniffed. “Yes, love?”

  “Was it the same . . . with Mum, I mean?”

  She looked at me. “The same as what?”

  “Did she . . . ? I mean, was she in the hospital for a while, like me . . . or was it, you know . . . was it quick?”

  Gram held my gaze for a second or two, then she turned away and looked down at the floor, and for a while I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. But then, after sniffing and wiping her nose again, she said, very softly, “She didn’t suffer, Tommy. It was very quick. She wouldn’t have known what was happening.”

  “She died straightaway?”

  Gram nodded. “Georgie . . . your mum, she was going to work . . . she got off the bus, started to cross the road, and a car just came out of nowhere and ran her over. She died instantly. She wouldn’t have known anything, thank God . . .”

  Gram’s voice was broken with tears, and I could see her hands trembling.

  “I’m sorry, Gram,” I said. “I didn’t mean to —”

  “No, no,” she said quickly, looking up at me. “It’s all right, Tommy . . . it’s just me . . . it’s just . . .”

  She couldn’t finish what she was trying to say. She smiled sadly at me, wiped another tear from her eye, and as she gently took my head in her arms and gave me a long, hard hug, I could feel her shaking all over.

  Later on, after we’d had something to eat and watched the end of a late-night film together, I asked Gram if she’d ever heard of Howard Ellman, the man that Davey had told me about, the one they called the Devil. Her reaction was totally unexpected. At first, she didn’t do anything — she just sat there, completely still, staring straight ahead . . . not even breathing — and for a moment or two I wondered if she’d actually heard me. But then, very slowly, she turned to face me, and I could tell by the look on her face that she had heard me. She looked stunned — totally and utterly stunned. It was as if she’d just heard the worst news in the world.

  “What’s the matter, Gram?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Are you OK? You look terrible.”

  She blinked, frowning at me. “Sorry . . . ? I was . . . uh . . . I was miles away. What did you say?”

  “Howard Ellman . . . I asked you if you’d ever heard of him.”

  “Why . . . ? I mean . . .” She cleared her throat. “Why do you want to know about him?”

  I shrugged. “No reason, really. It’s just that Davey told me he’s the one who runs all the local gangs . . . well, he doesn’t actually run them, but he pretty much pulls all the strings.”

  Gram nodded, smiling tightly at me. “So why are you asking me about him? Why would I know someone like that?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just thought you might have heard of him, that’s all. I mean, you’ve lived here a long time, you know a lot of people, you hear a lot of stuff . . .” I shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter, Gram. It’s not important or anything. I was only asking . . .”

  She nodded again, her eyes fixed on mine, and for a moment I thought that she was going to tell me something, that she wanted to tell me something . . . something really important . . .

  But I was wrong.

  She just glanced at her watch and said, “You’d better get off to bed now. It’s getting late. I’ll see you in the morning, all right?”

  A few minutes later, as I was closing the door to my room, I looked back down the hallway and saw Gram sitting bolt upright on the settee. She was perfectly still, her hands laid flat on her knees, and she was staring straight ahead, staring at nothing. She looked as if she’d just seen a ghost.

  The Devil tempts that he may ruin and destroy . . .

  Saint Ambrose

  If you know where to look, and how to look, and if you have the ability to look wherever you want, the cyber-world is full of places where you can find out all kinds of things about all kinds of people. There’s the National DNA Database, the General Register Office (births, marriages, deaths), the National Identity Register, the National Health Service detailed care record, the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency, the Identity and Passport Service . . . the list is almost endless. And if, like me, you can hack into these places without any problems at all, it’s not too difficult to find out all there is to find out about someone.

  But that night, as I lay on my bed in the darkness, searching through every search engine and hacking into every database that I could think of, I couldn’t find any current information about Howard Ellman at all. At least, not the Howard Ellman that I was looking for. There was a Howard Ellman in San Francisco, a lawyer; another one who’d written a book called Arthroscopic Shoulder Surgery; another one who was “an accomplished designer and licensed architect” . . . there were hundreds of Howard Ellmans all over the world, but none of them had any links with Crow Town. I scanned millions of emails, billions of texts . . . nothing. I checked telephone records, council tax, gas and electric, the electoral roll, bank and credit card accounts . . . nothing. Even when I tried different spellings of the surname — Elman, Elmann, Ellmann — I still couldn’t find anything.

  Nothing current, anyway.

  It was only when I hacked into the Police National Computer (PNC) and accessed Ellman’s criminal record that I finally found out something about him. The information wasn’t exactly up-to-date — the last entry was dated July 2002 — and it wasn’t particularly detailed either . . . but it was detailed enough to convince me that Davey hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that Ellman was “a really bad guy.”

  Name: Howard Ellman

  Ethnic type: Caucasian

  Height: 1.85 m

  Weight: 83 kg

  Eye color: Pale blue

  Distinguishing marks/tattoos, etc.: None

  Address: Unknown

  Date of birth: 10 January 1971

  Place of birth: Addington House, Crow Lane Estate, London SE15 6CD

  Occupation: Unknown

  Registered vehicles: None

  Convictions/Cautions/Arrests: Arrested Sept 1989, March 1990, April 1992 for aggravated assault, all charges subsequently dropped. Arrested March 1993, Oct 1995, July 2002 for
sexual assault, complaints withdrawn, charges dropped.

  Additional comments: Suspected involvement in funding/import/supply Class A drugs, as yet unproved. Also possible involvement in organized prostitution, arms smuggling, illegal money-lending, people-trafficking. Known variously as “The Devil,” “Hellman,” or “Hell-Man,” this individual is highly dangerous and should be approached with extreme caution at all times.

  There were no photographs in the PNC file, but there was a link to the computerized custody records at Southwark Borough Police Station, and when I accessed these I found a JPEG image of a mug shot of Ellman which I guessed had been taken when he was in his early twenties. It showed an angular-faced man with a thin mouth, a shaved head, and staring, soulless eyes. There was no trace of emotion in his face: no fear, no anger . . . nothing at all. It was the face of a man who could take a life as easily as taking a breath.

  In the darkness of my room, in the light of the darkness inside my head, I studied that face for a long time. And the more I stared at it, the more I wondered how much Howard Ellman had to answer for, how much pain he’d caused, how much suffering . . .

  I remembered Lucy’s anguished words: They ruined me, Tom. They totally fucking ruined me.

  And I wondered how many other lives Ellman was responsible for ruining.

  It was 03:34:42 when I left the flat and quietly closed the door. I tiptoed down the corridor, paused to put my shoes back on, then carried on down to the elevator.

  My iSkin was glowing.

  My hood was up.

  My heart was stone-cold.

  “The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end.”

  Leon Trotsky