by Chris Ryan
He sat up and removed the letter from his sister from his rucksack. His hands always trembled slightly when he removed the single piece of paper from the envelope. Before he unfolded it, he sniffed the paper. He sometimes thought he could smell Madeleine’s perfume, but maybe that was his mind playing tricks. He opened it up and started to read, only just able to pick out the letters in the gloom:
Ricky closed his eyes and folded the paper again. He couldn’t bear to read on tonight. He tucked the letter carefully back into his rucksack, and tried to sleep again.
The hours passed slowly. In the small hours of the morning he sat up and once more peered through the foliage towards the railings. The traffic had died down now and there were only a few late-night passers-by. He tried to pick out their faces, to see if any of them was the witch. But it was too dark to tell.
– Maybe she’s wandered off to find someone else to steal from.
– Yeah. Maybe.
Or maybe not.
Thoughts rebounded in his head as he tried to plan his next move. He couldn’t pick pockets with a face like this. Could the remains of his twenty pounds last until his bruises healed? It would have to . . .
Ricky had once heard someone say that the darkest hour came just before dawn. He didn’t know if that was true, but it was certainly the coldest. His body had given up shivering, like it didn’t have the energy. He was numb and could barely feel his own limbs. He forced himself to stand up in an attempt to get his blood moving.
And that was when he saw them. Three silhouettes.
Like dangerous animals in a zoo, they prowled along the railings on either side of the gate. Occasionally they stopped, held the railings and looked in. From a distance, Ricky recognized the witch’s face. It was drawn and lean, and there was a nasty hunger in her eyes – like a predator that knew there was an easy meal within reach. He looked at the other silhouettes in turn. One of them was female, the other male. All thin. All with the same desperate look in their eyes.
– They’ve probably got knives. You should hand over your money now. Save yourself getting cut.
– No way. That’ll leave me with nothing. I’ll starve . . .
– Maybe I should stash what I’ve got left in my shoe again . . .
But he only had coins now, and if he stuffed those in his shoe they would hinder him if he had to run. Not that he thought he’d be able to run, he was so cold. This was going to end ugly.
The grey light of dawn arrived. As the traffic started to build up again, the vultures continued to loiter around the square. And when, an hour after first light, the park-keeper returned to open up the gate, they thronged around it. Feeding time.
The witch was the first to enter, along with one of her companions, a man with tombstone teeth and tattoos over his neck. The others loitered by the gate, obviously ready to catch Ricky if he made a run for it.
– She’s coming your way.
– Thanks. I noticed.
– What are you going to do?
Ricky picked up his bag, then stepped out from behind the foliage where he had spent the night. When she saw him, the witch’s lip curled. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a score,’ she rasped nastily to her companion. ‘Empty your pockets out, cutie pie. Let’s see your money,’ she snarled. ‘And your shoes. I’ll have those trainers too . . .’
Ricky didn’t move.
An irritated look flashed across the woman’s face. She was wearing a dirty grey tracksuit top, which she unzipped now. From inside, she pulled out a flick-knife, and with the press of a thumb the blade sprang out.
‘You heard what I said.’
Ricky stepped back. He couldn’t take his eyes off the knife. It looked thin and vicious.
‘Cut him,’ said the man. ‘Just cut him . . .’
– Over there!
Ricky’s glance shot towards the gate. He blinked. The witch’s other accomplice was on the ground, writhing in pain. And just inside the gate, striding towards them with a slight limp, his stick held like a weapon, was a familiar face.
Felix.
And he looked like he meant business.
The witch ran forward. She was just a couple of metres from Ricky, and he staggered back as she raised her knife in a stabbing motion. He could see her teeth, yellow and crooked, and smell the foulness of her breath. But he could also see Felix, standing right behind her now, his eyes slightly narrowed and a serious look on his strange face. One hand was leaning on his walking stick. In the other he carried a small, white paper bag.
‘Would you like a mint humbug?’ he said quietly.
The woman froze. She looked over her shoulder. When she saw Felix standing there, with his walking stick and his white paper bag of sweets, she sneered.
‘Get out of it, Grandad,’ she said, before turning back to Ricky.
Felix’s stick moved so fast that Ricky barely saw it. It cracked against the woman’s raised wrist and there was a sudden splintering sound as she dropped the knife. She gasped in pain and grabbed her wrist with her good hand while her companion ran towards the gate. Ricky saw from the corner of his eye that the other woman had also got up and run away.
The witch was staggering back, still clutching her wrist. Felix put the bag of sweets in his pocket, then picked up the flick-knife, made it safe, stuck it in his pocket too, and strode up to Ricky. ‘It’s totally up to you,’ he said mildly, ‘but I suggest you come with me.’
‘You’ve been following me.’ Ricky’s voice sounded high-pitched. Tense. Slightly wild.
‘Yep. Good job too. Look at the state you’re in. She’d have murdered you.’ There was sweat on his forehead, even though the morning air was chilly.
‘I don’t like being followed.’
‘I should get used to it, if I were you,’ Felix muttered.
‘What do you mean?’
Felix stared him straight in the eye. ‘I’ve got two things to say to you, Coco. Will you listen?’
Ricky eyed Felix’s walking stick nervously. ‘OK,’ he said.
‘Number one. Staying here was a bad move. You were locked in. Never lock yourself in. That means no escape route, and you always want an escape route.’
‘Right. Thanks for the advice. Very useful.’ He darted his eyes left and right. Just to check.
‘And number two, you need a hot drink and a hot meal. I’ll buy you one now. While you eat, I’ve got a proposition for you. If you agree to it, great. If not, you’ll never see me again. Do we have a deal?’
The only part that Ricky really heard was the bit about the hot meal.
– Bite his arm off, said Ziggy. Get some breakfast inside us, then we can ditch him.
– Too right.
Ricky smiled falsely at Felix. ‘All right, mister,’ he said. ‘Deal.’
4
THE DEAL
‘You’ve got a decision to make,’ said Felix.
Ricky stared at his food. Right now, the only decision on his mind was whether to start with the sausage or the bacon. Or the beans – the beans did look good. He shovelled a forkful into his mouth, then closed his eyes in bliss as they almost scalded his tongue. After a night on the cold, hard ground of Bloomsbury Square, the warm fug of this café with its steamed-up windows and mugs of hot tea was as welcome as a soft mattress and a cosy duvet.
He cut off a large piece of sausage and crammed it into his mouth. Only then did it twig that Felix had said something. ‘What?’
Felix smiled. ‘Finish your food,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll talk.’ He sat back in his chair and let his eyes wander, sucking on one of his mint humbugs and humming softly to himself as Ricky tucked in. This guy truly was a weirdo, but he was a weirdo with a wallet, and for Ricky, being full had never felt so good. As he scraped the last remains of bacon fat and ketchup from his plate with the edge of his fork, he saw that Felix was looking at him with that amused expression he so often seemed to wear.
‘What?’ Ricky said.
‘It saves on washing up, I su
ppose.’
Ricky lowered his knife and fork. ‘Thanks for the food,’ he said. His eyes flickered towards the door.
– You could just leave now.
– No, look, it’s raining outside. Hear baldy out. Then we’ll go.
‘So, Coco . . .’
‘My name’s not Coco.’
‘I know. It’s Ricky.’
Ricky stared at him, horrified. He has to be some kind of official, he thought wildly.
– Has he come to drag you back to the do-gooders?
‘How did you know that?’ he stammered at last.
‘I know lots of things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, that landlord of yours is in for an extremely bad day. Baxter, isn’t it? He got a knock on the door about two hours ago. He’ll be in police custody by now.’
‘What about his tenants?’
‘You should be pleased,’ Felix said. ‘Baxter is a very unpleasant individual. Look what he did to your face.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. His tenants will have nowhere to go. It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated?’ Felix said, amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘Yes it is, Coco. I’m glad you understand that. Sometimes we all have to do complicated things.’
‘Stop calling me Coco!’ There was a pause. Ricky gave Felix a hard stare. ‘Have you been following me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘I’m very good at it.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘The same way I know that your mum and dad died in a car crash thanks to a drunk driver on the M25 on the third of February last year. The same way I know that your sister Madeleine committed suicide soon afterwards . . .’
Ricky looked away. There were some things he couldn’t bear to hear spoken out loud.
There was a pause. When Felix continued, his voice was slightly more kindly. ‘The same way I know that you ran away from your foster parents in Northampton because they wanted you to be a member of their church. All a bit happy-clappy for someone who’d just lost his mum and dad. And his sister, of course.’
Ricky’s eyes narrowed. Maybe that was it. Maybe this guy wasn’t a criminal after all, but had been sent to find Ricky and drag him back into care.
‘I’m not going back to the do-gooders, if that’s your plan,’ Ricky said. ‘And definitely not to that bunch of weirdo God-botherers again. I’d rather live on the street.’ He glanced at the door again. If he moved quickly, he could get away.
Felix inclined his head. ‘Maybe we can sort things so you don’t have to do either.’
– The rain’s easing off, Ziggy said. We can go now.
But Ricky wasn’t ready to go. He wanted to know more.
‘I’m impressed by you,’ Felix was saying. ‘I like the way you work alone, not like those other kids in Trafalgar Square. And you’re quite skilful . . .’
‘But you caught me,’ Ricky pointed out.
Another smile. ‘Of course, Coco. I’d catch anyone.’ Another gentle smile. ‘I know, I know, it seems unlikely, doesn’t it? Still, I can tell that you’re a fast learner, and you’ve certainly got some guts. Most runaways would have crumbled by now, but you’ve got a bit of steel. That goes a long way, in certain lines of work.’
Ricky’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you, some sort of Fagin?’
‘Ah, so you’re well-read too,’ Felix said, avoiding the question.
Ricky wasn’t, but he’d watched the musical of Oliver! with his sister once, and with a pang he remembered them both singing along to the ‘pick a pocket or two’ song. At the time, of course, he had had no idea that he would himself end up as a pickpocket. A modern Artful Dodger.
– But without a Fagin to take your profits, Ziggy reminded him.
‘I like that. You can learn a lot from books,’ Felix continued. He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of A4 paper, which he handed to Ricky. ‘Have a look,’ he said.
It looked like an estate agent’s particulars for an apartment. A very cool top-floor apartment. It overlooked the river, had large rooms and state-of-the-art fittings. Ricky laid the paper on the table. ‘I think the rent might be a bit high for a pickpocket’s wages,’ he said.
‘There won’t be any rent,’ said Felix. ‘That’s your new pad, if you want it to be.’
Alarm bells.
– He’s one of those blokes they always warned you about. Get out of here, quick.
‘Believe me, I know what you’re thinking,’ Felix said quietly. He removed the knife he had confiscated from the woman in Bloomsbury Square, and slid it across the table. ‘Take that,’ he said. ‘If I or anyone else tries something you don’t like, you can defend yourself.’
Ricky took the knife, but shuddered as he gripped it – he hated blades.
‘You’re probably wondering why I just came down with a bad case of generosity,’ said Felix.
‘What I’m wondering,’ said Ricky, ‘is where’s the catch.’
Felix did not, Ricky noticed, deny that there was one. He just continued talking as if Rick hadn’t spoken.
‘Here’s the deal. You move into this flat. You get a hundred pounds a week spending money. You stop with the pickpocketing and the thievery. You eat properly, you sleep properly and you spend your spare time taking lessons.’
– Lessons?
‘What are you, some sort of, I dunno, top-secret geography teacher? I’m not going back to school, you know.’
‘We’re not talking school, Coco. And we’re certainly not talking geography.’
– So what is he talking?
– Think about it. He’s already taught you stuff. Useful stuff. The twenty-pound note, the running in a straight line, the escape route.
– But why? What does he want from us?
– Maybe he is some sort of Fagin. Training up kids to carry out his crimes for him.
– So what do we do?
‘There’s no pressure,’ Felix said. ‘You do what you want. The choice is yours.’ He sat back in his seat again, as though he’d said his piece.
‘What if I say no?’
Felix gave a little shrug. ‘There’s always Bloomsbury Square, and plenty of other places like it. But I’ve got to tell you, Coco, it didn’t look all that comfortable. Then again, there’s the – “do-gooders”, did you call them? The child-protection people will catch up with you, I expect.’
‘No way. I’m not going back. I’ll hide . . .’
‘And they’ll find you, Coco. They’ll definitely find you, eventually.’
They stared at each other across the table. Ricky had the distinct impression that he was being outmanoeuvred. He picked up the piece of paper with the photos again. It looked a lot nicer than Baxter’s horrible rented accommodation.
But what was he getting himself into?
– Here’s what we do. We rest up in this flat of his. We take his money. We learn what we can, if that’s so important to him. We definitely find out how he’s following us. Then we disappear again.
As these thoughts went through his mind, Ricky shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Felix was giving him a piercing stare. It felt like he knew exactly what Ricky was thinking.
‘OK,’ Ricky said quietly.
Felix nodded, his brow furrowed. He took out a ten-pound note and laid it on the table to pay for Ricky’s breakfast. ‘Shall we go?’ he said.
The rain had stopped, but the pavements were still glistening. Felix hailed a cab by holding out his sturdy walking stick. He gave the driver an instruction as Ricky climbed inside the taxi. Moments later, they were being whisked down High Holborn and towards the City.
‘Where are we headed?’ Ricky asked.
‘Docklands. It’s a penthouse flat. Big building, lots of glass. I think you’ll like it.’
Ricky didn’t reply.
‘It’s certainly better than a park bench, anyway,’ said Felix.
Three
hundred and fifty miles to the north-west of London, three men stood on a hill overlooking a bleak, grey sea. There was a stiff breeze which ruffled their hair and their expensive suits. To their west, shrouded in mist, they could just see the outline of an industrial shipyard, perhaps five miles away. Behind them, on the brow of the hill, an official-looking black Mercedes was waiting. But the attention of these three men was all on the open water.
Two of them were broad-shouldered. The third was rather wiry with a mean, pinched face. He had a pair of binoculars, and he was looking intently through them, out to sea. The broad-shouldered men looked annoyed at having to stand in the long, wet grass. It was soaking their good leather shoes and the bottoms of their trousers.
‘What is this, Cole?’ one of them said. He had a very pronounced Russian accent. That, and the howling wind, meant that the wiry man struggled to understand him. ‘Some sort of joke?’
Cole did not lower his binoculars. ‘No joke, Dmitri,’ he said. ‘Just keep watching.’
The two broad-shouldered men frowned and looked out to sea. It was rough and uninviting.
‘I don’t even know where we are,’ said the second burly man. ‘Why have you brought us to this horrible place?’
Cole finally lowered his binoculars. With a great deal of obvious effort, he gave the man a thin smile. ‘It’s the Firth of Clyde, Gregoriev. I admit it’s not quite as lovely as your Siberian coastline.’ The men frowned at his little dig. Cole raised the binoculars again, and once more looked out to sea. ‘You’ll understand why we’re here soon enough. Just give it a few more minutes.’
‘It has been half an hour already.’ Gregoriev sounded aggressive. Cole glanced in his direction and saw his right hand head towards his coat pocket. At the last moment, Dmitri grabbed his wrist and said something in Russian. Gregoriev lowered his hand, but didn’t sound any less annoyed when he said: ‘I think you’re pretending to know something you—’
‘Quiet!’ Cole instructed.
