It was just a card like all the others, in the window of his local newsstand, but right from the start Kevin knew the job had to be for him. He was sixteen years old and just out of school and there were two things about him that were absolutely true. He had no experience and no qualifications.
Kevin loved games. His pocket computer had gone to school with him every day of the last year, even though it was against school rules, and when it was finally confiscated by a weary teacher in the middle of a geography lesson (just as he’d been about to find the last gold star in Moon Quest), he’d gone straight out and bought another one—this time with a color screen—and had spent the rest of the term playing with that.
Every day when he got home he threw his bag into the corner, ignoring his homework, and either booted up his dad’s laptop for a game of Brain Dead or Blade of Evil or plugged in his own for a quick session of Road Kill 2. Kevin’s bedroom was piled high with computer magazines and posters. It would also be true to say that he had never actually met most of his best friends. He simply exchanged messages with them on the Internet—mainly hints for games, the secret codes, and shortcuts.
And that wasn’t the end of it. On Saturdays, Kevin would take the bus into London and lose himself in the arcades. There was one, right in the heart of Piccadilly, that was three floors high and absolutely crammed with all the latest equipment. Kevin would go up the escalator with his pockets bulging with quarters. To him, there was no sound in the world sweeter than a brand-new coin rolling into a slot. By the end of the day, he would stagger home with empty pockets, an empty head, and a dazed smile on his face.
The result of all this was that Kevin had finally left school with no knowledge of anything at all. He had failed all his exams—the ones that he’d even bothered to show up for, that is. College was obviously out of the question—he couldn’t even have spelled it. And, as he was already discovering, job opportunities for people as ignorant as him were few and far between.
But he wasn’t particularly worried. Since the age of thirteen, he’d never been short of money and he saw no reason why this shouldn’t continue. Kevin was the youngest of four children living in a large house in Camden Town, North London. His father, a quiet, sad-looking man, did the night shift in a bakery and slept for most of the day, so that the two of them never met. His mother worked in a shop. He had a brother in the army. A married sister and another brother training to be a taxi driver. He himself was a thief. And he was good at it.
For that was how he’d gotten the money to buy himself all the computer equipment and games. That was how he paid for the arcades in town. He’d started with shoplifting—the local supermarket, the corner shops, the bookshop, and the drugstore on the High Street. Then he’d met some other kids who’d taught him the riskier—but more profitable—arts of car theft and burglary. There was a pub he knew in Camden Town where he could get five dollars for a car radio, twenty for a decent stereo or video camera, and no questions asked. Kevin had never been caught. And the way he saw it, provided he was careful, he never would be.
Kevin had been passing the newsstand on his way to the pub when he saw the notice. Jobs—that is, honest jobs—didn’t interest him. But there was something about the advertisement that did. The “highest salary and bonus” bit for a start. But it wasn’t just that. He knew he was fit. He’d sprinted away from enough smashed car windows and broken back doors to know that. He was certainly enthusiastic, at least when it came to computer games. Of course he might be wasting his time—if they wanted someone to do programming or anything like that. But . . .
Why not. Why the hell not?
And that was how, three days later, he found himself outside an office on Rupert Street, in the middle of Soho. He had come to meet a Miss Toe. That was what she had called herself. Kevin had called her from a pay phone and he’d been so pleased to get an interview that for once he hadn’t vandalized the phone. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. The address that she had given him belonged to a narrow, red-brick building squeezed in between a cake shop and a tobacconist. It was so narrow, in fact, that he’d walked past it twice before he found where it was. It was also very old, with dusty windows and the sort of front door you’d expect to find on a dungeon. There was a small brass plaque beside this. Kevin had to lean down to read it.
GALACTIC GAMES LTD
It wasn’t a good start. In all the magazines he’d read, Kevin had never heard of anyone called Galactic Games. And now that he thought of it, what sort of computer-game company would be advertising in the window of a newsstand in Camden Town? What sort of computer company would have a crummy office like this?
He almost decided to go. He’d actually turned around and walked away before he changed his mind. Now that he was here, he might as well go in. After all, he’d paid for a ticket on the subway (even if he had cheated and bought a child’s fare). He had nothing else to do. It would probably be a laugh, and if nobody was looking, he might be able to cop an ashtray.
He rang the bell.
“Yes?” The voice at the other end of the intercom was high-pitched, a bit singsong.
“My name’s Kevin Graham,” he said. “I’ve come about the job.”
“Oh, yes. Please come straight up. The first floor.”
The door buzzed and he pushed it open and went in. A narrow flight of stairs in a dark, empty corridor led up. Kevin was liking this less and less. The stairs were crooked. The whole place felt about a hundred years old. And all sound from the street had disappeared from the moment the heavy door had swung shut behind him. Once again he thought about turning around, but it was too late. A door opened at the top of the stairs, spilling a golden light into the gloom. A figure appeared, looking down at him.
“Please. This way . . .”
Kevin reached the door and saw that it had been opened by a small, Japanese-looking woman wearing a plain black dress with black high-heeled shoes that tilted her forward as if she were about to fall flat on her face. Her face, what he could see of it, was round and pale. Black sunglasses covered her eyes. And she really was small. Her head barely came up to his chin.
“So who are you?” he asked.
“I am Miss Toe,” she said. She had a strange accent. It wasn’t Japanese, but it certainly wasn’t English. And as she spoke she left the tiniest of gaps between each word. “I—am—Miss—Toe. We—spoke—on—the—telephone.” She closed the door.
Kevin found himself in a small office with a single desk, bare but for a single phone and with a single chair behind it. There was nothing else in the room. The walls, recently painted white, didn’t have one picture on them, not even a calendar. So much for stealing, he thought to himself. There wasn’t anything to take.
“Mr. Go will see you now,” she said.
Miss Toe and Mr. Go in Soho. Kevin wanted to laugh, but for some reason he couldn’t. It was too weird.
Mr. Go was sitting in an office next to Miss Toe’s. It was like walking through a mirror. His room was exactly the same as hers, with bright white walls, one desk, one telephone, but two chairs. Mr. Go was the same size as his assistant and also wore dark glasses. He was dressed in a sweater that was slightly too small for him and a pair of cords that was slightly too big. As he stood up his movements were jerky and he, too, left gaps between his words.
“Please, come in,” Mr. Go said, seeing Kevin at the door. He smiled, revealing a row of teeth with more silver than white. “Sit down!” He gestured at the chair and Kevin took it, feeling more suspicious by the minute. There was definitely something odd here. Something not quite right. Mr. Go reached into his desk and took out a square of paper—some sort of form. Kevin’s reading was no great shakes and anyway the paper was upside down, but as far as he could tell the form wasn’t written in English. The words were made up of pictures rather than letters and seemed to go down rather than across the page. It had to be Japanese, he supposed.
“What is your name?” Mr. Go asked him.
“Kevin
Graham.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Address?”
Kevin gave it.
“You’ve left school?”
“Yeah. A couple of months ago.”
“And tell me please. Did you get good grades?”
“No.” Kevin was angry now. “Your ad said no qualifications needed. That’s what it said. So why are you wasting my time asking me?”
Mr. Go looked up sharply. It was impossible to tell with the dark glasses covering his eyes, but he seemed to be pleased. “You’re quite right,” he said. “Quite right. Yes. Qualifications are not required. Not at all. But can you supply references?”
“What do you mean?” Kevin was lounging in his chair. He had decided he didn’t care if he got the job or not—and he didn’t want this ridiculous Jap to think he did.
“References from your teachers. Or your parents. Or former employers. To tell me what sort of person you are.”
“I’ve never had an employer,” Kevin said. “My teachers would just give you a load of rubbish. And my parents can’t be bothered. Shove the references! Who needs them anyway?”
Even as he spoke the words, he knew that the interview was probably over. But there was something about the empty room and the small, doll-like man that unnerved him. He wanted to go. To his surprise, Mr. Go smiled again and nodded his head vigorously. “Absolutely!” he agreed. “The references can indeed be shoved. Although you have only been in my office for a matter of some twenty-nine and a half seconds, I can already see your character for myself. And my dear Kevin—I may call you Kevin?—I can see that it is exactly the sort of character we require. Exactly!”
“What is this place?” Kevin demanded.
“Galactic Games,” Mr. Go replied. “The finest game inventors in the universe. Certainly the most advanced this side of the Milky Way. We’ve won many, many awards for Smash Crash Slash 500. And our new, advanced version (we call it Smash Crash Slash 500 Plus) is going to be even better.”
“Smash Crash Slash?” Kevin wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It hasn’t been marketed yet. Not in this . . . area. But we want you to work on this game. In this game. And if you’re game, the job’s yours.”
“How much do you pay?” Kevin demanded.
“Two thousand a week plus car plus health care plus funeral package.”
“Funeral package?”
“It’s just an extra we throw in—not, of course, that you’ll need it.” Mr. Go took out a golden pen and scribbled a few notes on the piece of paper, then spun it around so that it faced Kevin. “Sign here,” he said.
Kevin took the pen. It was curiously heavy. But for a moment he hesitated. “Two thousand a week,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“What sort of car?”
“Any car you want.”
“But you haven’t told me what I have to do. You haven’t told me anything about the job . . .”
Mr. Go sighed. “All right,” he said. “Right. Right. Right. Never mind. We’ll find someone else.”
“Wait a minute . . .”
“If you’re not interested!”
“I am interested.” Kevin had caught the smell of money. Two thousand dollars a week and a car! What did it matter if Mr. Go seemed to be completely mad and if he’d never heard of either the company or the game . . . what was it called? Bash Smash Dash. He quickly searched for a clear space on the sheet of paper and scribbled his name.
Kevin Graham . . .
But the strange thing was that as the pen traveled across the page it seemed to become red-hot in his hand. It only lasted for a second or two, as long as it took him to form his signature, but no sooner was it done than he cried out and dropped the pen, curling his fingers and holding them up as if to find burn marks. But there was nothing. Mr. Go picked up the pen. It was quite cool again. He popped it back into his pocket and slid the sheet of paper back to his side of the desk.
“Well, that’s it,” he said. “Welcome to Smash Crash Slash 500 Plus.”
“When do I start?” Kevin asked.
“You already have.” Mr. Go stood up. “We’ll be in touch with you very soon,” he said. He gestured. “Please. Show yourself out.”
Kevin was going to argue. Part of him even thought of punching the little man in the nose. That would show him! But his hand was still smarting from the pen and he very much wanted to get out, back onto the street. Maybe he’d walk over to the Piccadilly arcade. Or maybe he’d just go home and go to bed. Whatever he did, he didn’t want to stay here.
He left the room the way he had come.
Miss Toe was no longer in her office, but the door was open on the other side and he walked out. And that was when he noticed something else strange. The door was glowing. It was as if there was a neon strip built into the frame. As he walked through it the light danced in his eyes, dazzling him.
“What on earth . . . ?” he muttered to himself.
He didn’t stop walking until he got home.
There weren’t many people around as Kevin turned onto the street where he lived. It was half past three and most of the mothers would be picking their kids up from school or in the kitchens preparing tea. The ones who weren’t at work themselves, of course. Cranwell Grove was actually a crescent; a long, quiet road with Victorian terraced houses standing side by side all the way around. About half the buildings belonged to a housing association and Kevin’s father had been lucky enough to get the one at the very end of the row, three floors high, stained glass in the front door, and ivy growing up the side. Kevin didn’t like it there, of course. He argued with the neighbors. (Why did they have to get so uptight about their cat? He’d only thrown the one brick at it . . .) And it was too quiet for his taste. Too boring and middle class. He’d rather have had his own place.
He had just reached the front door when he saw the man walking toward him. He wouldn’t normally have taken any notice of anyone walking down Cranwell Grove, but there were two things about this man that struck him as odd. The first was that he was wearing a suit. The second thing was the speed at which he was walking; a fast, deliberate pace. He was heading for Kevin’s house. There could be no doubt of it.
Kevin’s first thought was that this was a plainclothes policeman. With his hand resting on the key, which was already in the lock, his mind raced back over the past few weeks. He’d robbed a car stereo from a BMW parked on Camden Road. And then there’d been that bottle of gin that he had slipped out of the liquor store near the station. But neither time had anyone seen him. Could his face have been caught by a video camera? Even if it had been, how had they managed to find him?
The man was closer now, close enough for Kevin to see his face. He shivered. The face was round and expressionless, the mouth a single, horizontal line, the eyes as lifeless as marbles. The man seemed to have had some sort of surgery, plastic surgery that had left him with more plastic than skin. Even his hair could have been painted on.
The man stopped. He was about fifty feet away.
“What do you . . . ?” Kevin began.
The man pulled out a gun.
Kevin stared—more amazed than actually frightened. He had seen guns on television a thousand times. People shot one another all the time in plays and films. But this was different. This man, this total stranger, was just ten paces away. He was standing in Cranwell Grove and he was holding . . .
The man brought up the weapon and aimed it. Kevin yelled out and ducked. The man fired. The bullet slammed into the door, inches above his head, shattering the wood.
Real bullets!
That was his first, insane thought. This was a real gun with real bullets. His second thought was even more horrible.
The man was aiming again.
Somehow, when Kevin ducked, he’d managed to hold on to the key. It was above his head now, his fingers still clinging around it. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he turned the key in the lock and almost
cried with relief as he felt the door open behind him. He leaned back and virtually tumbled in as the man fired a second shot, this one snapping into the wall and spitting fragments of sand and brickwork into his face.
He landed with a thud on the hall carpet, twisted around, jerked the key out, and slammed the door. For a moment he lay there, panting, his heart beating so hard that he could feel it pushing against his chest. This wasn’t happening to him. What wasn’t happening to him? He tried to collect his thoughts. Some lunatic had escaped from an asylum and had wandered into Cranwell Grove, shooting anything that moved. No. That wasn’t right. Kevin remembered how the man had walked toward him. He had been heading straight for Kevin. There was no question about it. It was him the man wanted to kill.
But why? Who was he? Why him?
He heard the sound of feet moving outside. The man hadn’t given up! He was getting closer. Desperately, Kevin looked around him. Was he alone in the house?
“Mom!” he called. “Dad!”
No answer.
He saw the telephone. Of course, he should have thought of it at once. There was a dangerous lunatic outside and he’d wasted precious seconds when he should have been calling the police. He snatched up the receiver, but before he had even dialed the first nine, there was a volley of shots that seemed to explode all around him. He stared in horror. From his side, it looked as if the door was tearing itself apart, but he knew it was the man out on the sidewalk, shooting out the lock. Even as he watched, the door handle and lock shuddered and ricocheted onto the carpet. The door swung open.
Kevin did the only thing he could think of. With a shout, he snatched up the table on which the telephone had stood and swung it around in a great arc. And he was lucky. Just as the table reached the door, the man appeared, stepping into the hall. The table smashed right into his face and he fell backward, crumpling in a heap.
Kevin stood where he was, catching his breath. He was stunned, the gunshots still ringing in his ears, his head reeling. What was he going to do? Oh, yes. Call the police. But the telephone had fallen when he had picked up the table and there it was, smashed on the floor. There was a second phone in his parents’ bedroom, but that was no use. The door would be locked. His mother had locked it ever since she’d found him stealing from her handbag.
Horowitz Horror Page 10
