Boy Kills Man

by Matt Whyman

  PRAISE FOR BOY KILLS MAN

  ‘This is a fierce, strange and beautiful book, with an unswerving gaze on a terrifying tale. It gives a genuinely human face to a world we would rather dismiss as merely brutal, where the choice is destruction or self-destruction. It captures with great honesty the way weapons can empower those with no hope, and how there can still remain a kind of pride in oneself, even when every door to the future has been closed in your face. Bold, chilling and beautifully written. It really left an ache behind.’

  Melvin Burgess

  ‘A powerful, affecting novel about lost youth, and a sharp evocation of one boy’s terrible passage from innocence to experience … a book we could all do with reading.’

  Keith Gray, The Guardian

  ‘Boy Kills Man takes a tough, unrelenting look at the nightmare world of Colombian child assassins. Tautly written, giving no hostages to sentimentality at any stage, it is the sort of book that has to be read and then proves impossible to forget. Stunning … all that is left is a feeling of sadness and loss. A fine achievement.’

  Nick Tucker, The Independent

  ‘Excellent … Sonny is a bit like Henry Hill in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas. It’s a shock to realise that his relationshp with Beatriz, the girl he might have loved, has been nothing more than a few shy words’

  William Leith, The Daily Telegraph

  ‘Almost causes you to forget that its central characters are only twelve years old. This powerful novel should not be taken lightly.’

  Claudia Mody, The Bookseller

  ‘A tough, uncompromising – and very impressive piece of writing.’

  Robert Dunbar, The Irish Times

  ‘A fine story, based on the child assassins of Colombia. Bloody, desperate and full of tragic pride, the sheer unfairness of life caught between these pages make you want to scream out.’

  The Daily Telegraph – Books of the Year 2003

  ‘A chilling and brilliant account of boyhood, friendship and how adults can destroy potential and promise. I’ll certainly be recommending it. And the title though strange and shocking gives way to a story that is never sensationalised.’

  Niall Macmonagle

  ‘The teenage fiction debate will be fuelled by Matt Whyman’s novel, Boy Kills Man, which accounts the experience of a child assassin living in a South American ghetto. The fine text is surprisingly gentle – in contrast to the brutal story which pulls no punches.’

  Barbara Pendrigh, The Bookseller

  ‘Just occasionally, a novel hits you with such force that it takes a while for what you’ve read to sink in. Boy Kills Man is such a book.’

  Jayne Howarth, The Birmingham Post

  ‘… a narrative that few readers of twelve and above will be able to put down.’

  Anne Johnstone, The Glasgow Herald

  ‘A powerhouse of emotion and atmosphere that never fails to captivate.’

  John McLay, Ink

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise

  The Boy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The Man

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Boy

  San Cristobal district, Medellín, Colombia – right now:

  Shorty lives up to his nickname. He hasn’t seen the target he’s about to take out, but knows it’ll be hard to do so with a headshot.

  The boy’s driver – a man with a sleepy eye, known only as Manu – glances in the rear view mirror. Shorty is slouched in the back there. He has one shoe up on the seat, but Manu isn’t hired to teach him manners. That kind of thing was down to his wet-eyed mamà, also the boss man who covers her rent, and little kids like this one always listen to him first. Shorty is wearing cut-down jeans and a white t-shirt, the sleeves folded up like a vest, and he’s trying hard to fill it by chewing on a stick of gum. The shirt is way too big for him. So too is the gun in the holster Manu can make out underneath: a 38 Super Auto that the young assassin will have to fire with both hands to counter the kickback.

  They’re parked in a dusty residential street, with wax palms on each side. The trunks are skinny and skewed, each crowned by green blades that cut up the skyline all over the city. The car is the same kind of green, but for the rust and the mud splats. It’s an old Dodge Dart that Manu sometimes drives as an unlicensed cab. Even with the windows down it reeks of sweat, tobacco and air freshener. If they have to wait any longer, thinks Manu, the stink will kill them before the heat.

  It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and a brutal sun keeps most people indoors. The only activity takes place up ahead, where a knot of older kids flick a soccer ball among themselves. Shorty has been focused on them since they pulled up. In his dreams he’ll play professionally one day, for Atlético Nacional, Medellín’s number one team, but right now the drug inside him stops his feet from becoming too itchy. Shorty has a job to do here, after all, which is why Manu had injected him minutes earlier with two mills of the anti-panic medication he keeps in the glove compartment.

  Man, too much of that gear could send them straight to sleep. It was just a question of keeping them focused without watering down the natural adrenalin that turned the little ones into live wires. In the right hands, it could be a lethal combination. That the law wouldn’t jail a minor for a murder made them ideal for the job. Unless the government lived up to its half-assed legislation, and took hired guns like this one under its wing, well, the street would always take care of them. They got protection this way, and even a purpose in life, which was more than the state could offer. Sure, some rehab centres had been opened up to save such delinquents from themselves, but nowhere near enough to cope with demand. Abandoned but untouchable, these kids made perfect killers.

  Voices emerge from a lobby just then: a couple in conversation. Shorty switches his attention to the concrete block across the street, hears Manu confirm it’s him – the fool with the loose mouth. They see a middle-aged businessman come out of the building, and agree it must be his wife behind. He stops to say a few parting words to her, slings his jacket over one shoulder and heads right, just as Shorty has been briefed. Manu turns to face the boy, and finds him chewing on his gum more furiously than ever. All kids were like this for a while. Trouble only happened when they grew tired of what they were doing, or figured they could call the shots, but this one has some way to go yet. Twisting round now, Manu reaches out of his window and springs the passenger door. The child lock is a pain, but it guards against a change of heart.

  ‘It’s always good to be a little scared,’ is the last thing the boy hears him say. ‘Just make it clean for the boss, if you can. You might even earn yourself that season ticket he’s been promising.’

  1

  ‘Believe me, nothing is more unsettling in this world than a kid with a gun.’ That’s what the boss says whenever he introduces me to people. I’ve never found myself on the wrong side of a piece, not for real. Then again, I suppose you could say I’m the kind of kid people fear.

  ‘An adult is aware of the consequences,’ he’ll continue, so softly you almost have to hold your breath in case you miss something. ‘He’s likely to hesitate before pulling the trigger, or scale down the hit and just scare the sucker instead. A boy doesn’t think like that. You give
him a job, he’ll get it done, no question. Why?’ He always pauses here (or pats me on the head if I’m standing right beside him), ‘Because a boy is aware of the consequences if he doesn’t see it through.’

  My boss has the quietest voice you ever heard. Some say that it sounds like a deathly whisper, which is why he is known as El Fantasma – The Ghost. It also means that when he speaks, everybody listens. I need a gun in my hand before I can earn the same attention, or some money wrapped up in a band. The first time I told my mother that she no longer needed to go out each night to work, she just blinked at me. It didn’t matter how many times I said I could take care of things, my presence in the apartment was all she seemed to take in.

  Things changed once she had time to think. Now, if I place some cash on the table, Mamá clutches her forehead with one hand and blames herself for all kinds of things. If Uncle Jairo is in earshot then he’ll get involved, too. My uncle has bad lungs, which is why he’s always so frustrated and short-tempered. He reminds her I’m thirteen this year, almost a man. If I’m so smart and wise with words like he’s always hearing, then why hadn’t she sacrificed everything to keep me off the streets, huh? So shut up for once, he’ll spit, and let your son repay us for bringing him up. Sometimes Mamá will start wailing, which makes him scream bad things at her before panicking because he’s mislaid his inhaler. By then, I can’t even remember the point she’d been trying to make. El Fantasma wouldn’t allow things to get out of hand like that. He always has complete control of any situation, whether he’s scolding his guards or telling a funny story. He would make a great coach, I think. Give him eleven men, and within a season he’d shape them up into God’s own team.

  The boss has always known me as Shorty. It’s something I got called one time and annoyingly it stuck like gum to a shoe. It just doesn’t suit any position on the pitch, you know? If Shorty were in goal, you’d simply aim high to get the ball in the back of the net. Place the little guy in defence, or midfield, it would be a question of using your legs to outrun him. I suppose it doesn’t sound so bad for an attacking player, but not as proud and formidable as Sonny, my real name. A memorable striker needs no surname, and Sonny just says it all.

  … the ball swings up to Sonny, and the crowd are on their feet! The whole of Medellín are behind him. He’s passed one, two, and he shoots …

  It was Papa who named me, two months before I was born. I’m told he was utterly convinced that he would have a son. My mother claims he even described how I would look as I grew up. According to her, he hasn’t been wrong so far. If this is true, he must also have been aware that he would never see his predictions made flesh. All I know for sure is that Papa had to leave home in a hurry, though nobody ever explained why. It could’ve been the cops were after him, or maybe the cartel. I’ve learned not to ask any more. It just makes people angry – or sad. Either way, it must have taken a lot of courage, saying goodbye to his wife and unborn child. Only a brave man could make that kind of sacrifice. I just hope he foresaw that I would inherit his great courage.

  … Gooooaaaallllll!!!!!!

  El Fantasma shares my passion for soccer as well as for Nacional. I heard he is on personal terms with the trainer there, and has a seat in a bullet-proof box. The boss can handle a ball too, even if he is a little chubby in the face and waist. He likes to play with one touch, just like our national side. Some say it’s an arrogant style, but if the team play as one it can be deadly.

  ‘Always keep the ball moving,’ he tells me. ‘You can’t afford to give the opposition time to react. If the dust has settled and you still have possession, you’re in trouble.’

  Alberto played a very different style. If my best friend won the ball, which he often did without waiting for a pass, you could be sure he wouldn’t give it up. Instead, he would thunder for the box and nobody dared get in his way. Players sometimes stepped aside for him, just as they did for El Fantasma, but this was because Alberto was built like a bull. I used to think he charged in all the time because he was too ashamed to call out for the ball. You would expect a kid our age to squeak a bit, but Alberto had it bad. For a boy who looked like he should growl and grumble, it could come as quite a shock.

  ‘So what if my huevas haven’t dropped yet?’ he once piped up. ‘What matters is they’re made of steel!’

  We had a lot in common, Alberto and I. We grew up in the same barrio, and lived to support the same team. We could never afford to see Nacional play, but that didn’t stop us spending every home game in the shadow of the Atanasio Girardot. I have never been inside this stadium, just as I have yet to travel beyond the city limits, but I often dreamed about what it must be like. We would bring a football with us, of course, and knock it around on the concrete as if the crowd in there were roaring for us.

  We always made sure we were on the same side, too. If I was picking a team, Alberto would be my first selection and me his. No question. Unlike most kids, however, we didn’t belong to a gang. In Alberto’s opinion, that kind of thing was for cowards who couldn’t fight for themselves.

  ‘Never rely on other people if you want to get on in this life,’ he told me once, which was easy for him to say. Despite the difference in our size, we thought of each other as blood-brothers. We just didn’t have the scars on our palms to prove it. Often stuff went unsaid between us, but even though I only came up to his chest we always saw eye to eye. My best friend was a big baby, a big boy, and would’ve been a mountain of a man. He had a face that went wide when he grinned, and always had his hair pulled back in a fierce pigtail We took communion on the same day, and grew up listening to the same bootleg tapes. First Elvis rocked our world, but then Nirvana came into our lives. We listened to everything by them that we could lay our hands on, but privately I liked the quieter songs the best. I didn’t like to admit this to Alberto. I worried that he might laugh and accuse me of being a sissy, even though the stuff they did with acoustic guitars had more power and force than anything else. If my father ever returned, I used to think to myself at night, he would look like Kurt Cobain.

  Music, money, Jesus Christ and soccer: that’s what made our world go round, and for me it hasn’t stopped spinning.

  2

  On the streets and on the pitch, Alberto and I were a team. My friend was younger than me by two months, but he always led the way for me to follow. One week after he gave up on school, I decided to join him running cigarettes across the city. I was used to being picked on by my classmates because of my size, but without Alberto the taunts had quickly turned to serious threats, and so I decided to go. We got the work from a man called Galán who owned a general store opposite our block. Galán liked to make out he was an old style contrabandista who had laundered vast riches in his time. That he struggled to keep his shelves stocked made us think he was basically well connected with his imagination, but we let him have his moment as it paid us cash to burn.

  ‘This isn’t just work I’m providing,’ he crowed when he first took us on. ‘It’s an education!’

  I didn’t like Galán much. He wore an aftershave that smelled like sugared almonds, always had one finger curled around a fat cigar and kept mentioning that he once served up party food for Pablo Escobar. What the boastful old goat seemed to forget was that anyone in this city who made a living in the Eighties and early Nineties probably did so thanks to the same man.

  Most kids in this country know about history. We aren’t told fairy tales at bedtime, simply because the real-life stories of courage, treachery, bloodshed, love and honour have so much more to offer. It helps that we have TV, too, even if a lot of stuff about our past is made in the USA.

  Take the documentary I once saw about Escobar. It claimed that the billions of dollars he made trafficking cocaine cost our country its soul. Now, everyone accepts he was prepared to go to great lengths to protect his business interests, but all animals have a heart. That’s how Alberto once put it, and he was right. Pablo loved Colombia with the same passion that he loved h
is family, and Medellín was his home. Without him, thousands of people would have no roof over their heads, no hospice beds or nurseries, so I can understand why many still weep at his grave.

  Alberto and I couldn’t hope to remember the day he finally got cut down, but the stories about him crossed into folklore. Maybe some of the truth got a little twisted along the way, but then he was a complicated man from a complicated place. You only have to consider our politics to see that we’re screwed. The old folk who spend their days playing chess in the park? They know about these things. Give them a chance and they’ll quickly leave your head in a spin. They’ll go way back fifty years and more, to a time when the two main parties conducted themselves with dignity, like rival teams on the pitch.

  The conservatives and the liberals relied on reason and debate in their battle for control of the country, with no foul play. Then came the assassin’s bullet, one with a popular leader’s name on it. That marked the end of one era and the beginning of the next: La Violencia – in which our country turned against itself, and tore everything apart. Some say we have yet to recover from those ten savage years of uprising, strikes and guerrilla warfare. Sure, there were stabs at restoring calm, but then drugs became big business and that storm has yet to end. Those old guys who have lived through it all can tell you how cocaine caused the two sides to splinter into countless groups, but even they can’t say what cause anyone is fighting for any more. Seems we’ve been at war with ourselves for so long that nobody knows the difference now between power and peace.

  The only certainty is that the gun speaks louder than words.

  Every day I hear the crack of a pistol, or get word of a kidnapping and ransom demand. Gangsters rule here, not government, though it’s sometimes said that a lot of police and politicians are criminals who haven’t come out yet. Medellín may be kind of wild around the fringes, but then it isn’t a lawless place to live. If someone has done you wrong, there are ways and means of getting justice. Even if you can’t afford it straight away, terms can be arranged.