The Boy Who Saw: A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked

by Simon Toyne

  Solomon studied the man holding Léo. He was in the corner by the cubicles, ten feet away, too far, even if his hands were free. He looked at Léo, his eyes seeming smaller without his glasses. ‘Can you see me, Léo?’ Léo nodded as much as the hand across his mouth would let him. ‘And are my colours still white?’ Another small nod.

  ‘No talking,’ the man with the knife said.

  ‘You know Ant-Man?’ Solomon continued. ‘You know what he does in order to become strong?’ Léo nodded. ‘When you see my colours turn red, I want you to be like Ant-Man. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ the man holding Léo said. ‘One more word and I’ll hurt him.’

  Solomon nodded and smiled. He didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t need to.

  68

  Marie-Claude was studying the screen of the satnav when she became aware of someone approaching. She had been checking the distance to Mulhouse, where the Die Schneider Lager museum was situated, and looked up expecting to see Solomon and Léo. Instead she saw a huge figure heading towards her car and instinctively reached for the central locking button. There was a syncopated clunk as all four doors locked.

  The man kept coming and held something up when he heard the locks activate. Marie-Claude peered through the rain-streaked windscreen and her heart stopped when she saw what it was. He made a gesture, an upward flip of the finger, and she hesitated then unlocked the doors as he reached the car.

  The passenger door opened and he dropped into the seat, making the car rock on its suspension. ‘No one’s been hurt,’ he said in a calm reasonable voice that made her want to scream and start hitting him. ‘And as long as you do as I say and don’t try anything stupid, that’s how things will stay. Understand?’

  Marie-Claude stared at Léo’s rain-splashed glasses, tiny and fragile in the man’s huge hand.

  ‘Do you understand?’ the man repeated, a harder edge to his voice.

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. Now you take these little things before I break them.’ He handed her the glasses and she felt like screaming again. ‘When I give the word, I want you to sound your horn once to give my colleague a signal that everything is fine. Then you and I are going to get out of this car, walk to that BMW over there, your son and your skinny white boyfriend will join us and we’ll drive away together, safe and sound. All right?’

  Marie-Claude nodded. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Let’s deal with one thing at a time, shall we? Now, that family in the car with the bikes on the back are about to drive away. Soon as they’re gone, you hit the horn, just a quick sharp stab, OK?’

  She nodded and looked out through the rain.

  At the BMW.

  At the family car with the bikes on the back.

  At the concrete toilet block where her son was being held prisoner.

  69

  Solomon cleared his mind and focused all his attention on this moment. This place. The people within it. The man and the boy.

  The sound of the rain drumming on the roof slowed until he could hear the boom of each individual drop and the light sharpened until everything shone clear and in focus. He concentrated on Léo. He could hear his heartbeat, soft and fast, scampering over the deeper heartbeat of the man who held him. He had to see that Léo had understood before he let go of the rage that boiled deep in the depths of himself like the molten core of a planet. But Léo looked at Solomon and did not seem to see him, his dancing eyes showing fear and panic.

  Solomon dropped down a little, relaxing the muscles in his body until he felt as fluid as the rain gurgling in the gutters. Time stretched long in his heightened state and he watched the boy, waiting for the sharpening of understanding, but seeing only continued confusion. He could feel his anger rippling through him, a hint of the locked-down heat that simmered deep inside him and pain twitched in his arm where the mark was.

  Léo’s world was a blur and bad colours shifted above the hand clamped over his mouth, muddy browns and slimy greens, like the feathers on a drowned bird. He could see Solomon, the whiteness of him standing out against the grey, and wondered why he wasn’t doing anything to save him. He’d said that was why he was here, but he hadn’t even fought the men, he’d just let them tie him up, and now he was standing over by the sinks doing nothing.

  He’d told him to be like Ant-Man when his colours changed but he didn’t understand. Ant-Man had a suit that made him go really small and gave him super-strength. But Léo was already small. Small and weak. How would getting smaller help?

  He stared at the bright spot where Solomon was, his neck hurting from where the man held it tight. Then he saw it, a flicker of red in Solomon’s whiteness, the same colour he’d seen in the shadow outside his front door, and Léo understood.

  The smaller Ant-Man got, the stronger he became. So Léo drew up his legs and dropped his head down, and made himself as small as possible to get out of the way of the red that was coming.

  Solomon saw Léo shrink in languid slow motion. He heard the creak of sinew in the man’s arm as it tensed against the extra weight. Saw the knuckles glow white around the handle of the blade. And he let go.

  He uncoiled and twisted and cracked across the room like a whip, his fury exploding out of him, his leg stretching out and up and catching the man full on the side of his throat where Léo’s head had been a fraction of a second earlier. The head snapped back, thrown by the savage force of the kick; the hand holding the knife jerked away from Léo’s throat. Léo continued to drop, making himself smaller, becoming Ant-Man. The man staggered back, fighting for breath and balance, trying to haul Léo in front of him like a shield.

  Solomon landed, pivoted, sprang again, the pain in his arm screaming and the room now red in his eyes. He kicked upward, aiming for the wrist of the hand holding the knife, and felt the soft crunch of compacting bone as his foot connected and the hand turned to jelly. The knife spun away, struck the wall and clattered to rest on the concrete floor. The man tried to scream but his throat had been crushed. He fought for breath that wouldn’t come and Léo squirmed free from his slackening grip and scampered away across the floor.

  The man was on his knees now, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish, his hands clawing at the swelling on his throat like he was trying to loosen a knot. Solomon felt a surge of pain as he looked down upon the dying man – and he was dying. He would pass out soon, fall asleep and never wake up. Pain burned through the mark on Solomon’s arm at the thought of it. He wanted to grip it and squeeze the agony away but his hands were cable-tied behind him, the thin plastic digging in his flesh.

  ‘The knife,’ he said, nodding at where it had come to rest on the concrete. ‘Fetch the knife and cut me free.’ Léo peered at the floor, his eyes struggling to see without his glasses. ‘By the wall,’ Solomon said, biting down on the agony in his shoulder. Léo stepped around the man, found the knife and skipped back across the room. ‘Slip the blade between my wrists and hold it steady.’

  Solomon felt the cold edge of the blade touch his skin and slide slowly forward until it pushed through the tightly pressed flesh. He began sawing his wrists back and forth. He was feeling weak from the pain now. Nauseous. He had hurt the man, killed him probably, and the agony that was spreading through his body was a result of it. The cable-tie snapped and Solomon’s hands sprang free, fresh pain lancing through his arm at the movement and drawing a cry from his lips.

  Léo grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the door. ‘We need to help Mama.’

  Solomon squeezed his burning shoulder and looked down at the man, eyes closed, body twitching slightly. A short blast of a car horn cut through the thrum of rain and his eyes flickered but did not open.

  ‘We need to help Mama,’ Léo repeated.

  And they did. But not yet. Solomon dropped to his knees and patted the unconscious man down, running his hands over the pockets of his trousers and jacket. He found a wallet, a handful of small black sweets in wax-paper wrap
pers, a set of car keys, a small notebook and a pen. The pen was a cheap plastic Bic with a clear hollow tube and a chewed blue cap.

  Solomon handed it to Léo and took the knife from him. ‘Pull that apart for me,’ he said. ‘And look away.’

  Solomon knelt beside the man and positioned the point of the blade in the centre of his throat, right below the swollen larynx that was blocking his airway. Having checked Léo wasn’t looking, he banged his fist on the end of the handle, driving the point into the man’s throat with a pop. The man twitched in response but remained unconscious.

  ‘Give me the clear plastic tube from the pen,’ Solomon said.

  Léo handed it to him, eyes wide and staring at the knife sticking in the man’s throat. ‘You killed him!’

  ‘No,’ Solomon said, taking the tube and positioning the narrow end by the blade. ‘I’m saving him.’

  He withdrew the knife and pushed the tube into the incision at the same time, turning it and keeping a finger over the exposed end to create pressure in the tube and stop it getting blocked. He pushed until he felt resistance then withdrew it a little and removed his finger from the end. There was a whistling, sucking sound as air was drawn in through the tube and the man’s chest expanded.

  Solomon felt the relief of it too, the pain in his arm melting away like a glowing coal had been removed from his skin. He turned to Léo and smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You were very brave back there.’ A thought struck him. ‘What are my colours like now?’

  ‘They’re white again,’ Léo said. ‘They were red and black but they went all white again as soon as you put the pen in that man’s neck.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘That’s what it felt like,’ he said. ‘It hurt when I had to hurt him and it stopped when I decided to make him better.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not supposed to hurt people,’ Léo suggested.

  Solomon nodded, rubbed his shoulder and looked out at the rain. ‘Sometimes you don’t have a choice. Now let’s go save your mother.’

  70

  Bull stared at the toilet block through the rain.

  Maybe they hadn’t heard the blast on the horn. The rain was loud on the roof of the car; it would be loud in the toilet block too. He could see spray coming off the tiles and there was a gap between the roof and walls to let air flow through the building, which would make it even louder inside.

  ‘Hit it again,’ he said.

  Marie-Claude leaned on the steering wheel and stared ahead through the rain, desperate to catch a glimpse of her son and feeling anxious with every second she didn’t.

  The rain fell. Time ticked. No one came out of the toilet block.

  ‘Where’s your phone?’ Bull said.

  ‘In the bag,’ Marie-Claude pointed in the back.

  Bull reached around and grabbed the rucksack, his eyes fixed on the concrete building. ‘Give me your keys.’

  She handed them over and Bull opened the passenger door. ‘Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t do anything until I come back.’

  He stepped into the rain, slammed the door and locked it as he walked away.

  The rain was solid and heavy and made the canopy of leaves above him sound like a round of applause. He placed the rucksack with Marie-Claude’s phone by the trunk of a tree to keep it dry, checked to make sure no new vehicles had appeared then reached into his jacket and pulled the gun from his shoulder-holster.

  He moved forward, gun pointing down, eyes fixed on the toilet door. He stopped short of the building and listened through the drumming rain for the sound of voices or movement or anything.

  ‘Bobby?’ he called out.

  A door banged inside the building and a shape darted from the entrance and ran away across the grass. Bull jerked his gun towards it and saw it was the boy. The horn sounded behind him, long and loud and mournful, a desperate attempt by the mother to distract him from her fleeing son. Bull ignored it and saw fresh movement in the shadow of the entrance. Roberto emerged slowly on his hands and knees, head tilted back and blood all over his shirt and neck. Bull’s gaze shifted to the boy, small and skinny like the doll he had pulled apart in the flat.

  Fucking people, he thought as he raised his gun and centred on the running figure, I warned them not to do anything stupid. Three strikes and—

  There was a splash and a flash of white and something hit him so hard it spun him completely round and sent him staggering across the wet grass. He hit a tree, which knocked the breath out of him but stopped him from falling. He heard the splashing again, close and to his left, coming fast through the trees. He tried to bring his gun round but was hit again, hard on the inside of his wrist where the tendons and veins are packed together. As he felt his hand go loose, the gun slipping from it, a foot flashed out of nowhere and caught him hard on the side of the temple, driving right through his head and sending his brain rattling violently from side to side in his skull. He staggered away from the tree and took a few shuffling steps before his balance went completely.

  The last thing he heard was the car horn cutting out.

  He was unconscious before his face hit the grass.

  71

  Marie-Claude saw the big man fall and threw open her door.

  ‘Léo!’ she hollered, sprinting across the tarmac towards the spot she’d last seen him. ‘Come back.’ She splashed through puddles and felt the sting of rain on her face. ‘It’s OK, Léo.’

  She ran past the picnic table where the family had been and spotted him squatting down behind a tree, shivering and squinting at her through the misty veil of rain. She skidded to a stop, grabbed him, and squeezed him so hard she had to stop in case she hurt him.

  ‘I’m OK, Mama. I had to run.’ She put his glasses back on and brushed rain from his face. ‘Monsieur Creed told me to stay where I was, but when the other man woke up and started crawling over to me, I ran. He saved me, just like Grampy said he would. He moved so fast. You should have seen him, Mama.’

  Marie-Claude looked back to where Solomon was crouched down by the big man. ‘I did,’ she said.

  Solomon looked up as if he’d felt her gaze upon him and waved them over. She stood and carried Léo, unwilling to let him go again, squelching back through the rain. She glanced over at the other man as she drew closer, sitting inside the entrance and out.

  ‘We need to go,’ Solomon said.

  Marie-Claude looked down at the unconscious man who had sat in her car and calmly talked about kidnapping them. She looked at the other man, slumped in the entrance of the toilet block, back to the wall and legs splayed out in front of him, one hand on the ground and the other clamped to something sticking out of his throat. This was insane. All of it was insane. She clutched Léo tighter. ‘We need to call the police.’

  ‘No,’ Solomon said, rising up from the ground and heading over to the BMW. ‘We need to take their car and go.’

  Marie-Claude grabbed her rucksack from beneath the tree and hurried after him. ‘No way. I’m not stealing another car. This has gone too far.’

  Ignoring her, Solomon unlocked the boot of the BMW with the key he’d taken from the driver and started sorting through the bags and wallets he found inside.

  ‘Stop this,’ Marie-Claude said. ‘You’re only going to make things worse. We need to call the police and tell them everything that’s happened.’

  ‘They already know,’ Solomon said, handing her the Police Nationale ID card he’d taken from the man sprawled by the toilet block with blood on his shirt. ‘They are the police.’

  72

  The jet began its descent into Vierzon Méreau Airport and dropped into grey cloud. Amand looked out of the window and saw lightning flicker around the wings. He was sitting in a ridiculously soft leather chair that was more like a sofa while a cabin attendant tidied fresh fruit and pastries from the low table in front of him.

  ‘Should I buckle up?’ he asked her.

  ‘Up to you,’ she smiled, then swept away past a mahogany bar containing bottles of whisky that
were older than him.

  ‘Who does this plane belong to?’ Amand asked.

  Magellan looked up from a copy of the Wall Street Journal. ‘I can’t say,’ he said. ‘Patient–doctor privilege. Let’s just say there are plenty of Arabian princes who are very grateful to anyone who can cure their feckless, dissolute children from the addictions and excesses only great wealth can facilitate and keep secret. I could write a book on the toxic nature of immense wealth.’

  ‘You don’t seem to mind it too much.’

  Magellan smiled. ‘One doesn’t necessarily have to be wealthy to enjoy the fruits of it, any more than you have to believe in God in order to admire a cathedral. I’m like the jester in a medieval court – part of the tableau but also apart. An observer. I provide a service, my clients are grateful, they offer me tokens of appreciation. I’m not going to turn them down.’

  ‘And what will Solomon Creed’s family give you for returning their son?’

  ‘I’m sure Jefferson Hawdon would pay me more to keep him locked up forever, but I’m not looking for any kind of reward. My interest is personal. As I said before, he’s extraordinary. Like an evolutionary leap – sidewards, forward, I’m not sure which. He’s special.’

  The wheels bumped on the tarmac and Amand looked out of his window. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Another perk of private travel, no circling until a runway becomes free. There’s also a car waiting for us; I got the pilot to radio ahead. Where do we need to go?’

  Amand pulled his phone from his pocket, dialled the Cordes Commissariat and tensed at the familiar voice that answered. ‘Hey, Henri,’ he said. ‘Is Parra around?’

  ‘Ben! Where are you? I heard you recused yourself from the investigation.’

  ‘I did.’