iBoy (21 page)

Tom’s iSkin is on now, and he’s already running when the van pulls up at the side of the road. The back doors swing open and two more FGH kids jump out of the back and start helping the others as they bundle the girls toward the van. The girls have finally realized that this is deadly serious. They’re being dragged into the back of a van by a dozen or so young men, and no one’s laughing anymore. They’re panicking now, trying desperately to get away. They’re kicking and writhing, squirming and struggling, trying to scream for help . . . but two of the boys have their hands clamped hard over the girls’ mouths.

iBoy is running as fast as he can now, his feet slapping hard on the pavement. He’s about thirty feet away from the van when one of the younger boys spots him and yells out a warning to the others. They stop and turn to face iBoy, and when they see what’s running toward them — some kind of fluorescent mutant in a hood — they all just stand there for a second or two, too stunned to do anything. But then one of them — a really nasty-looking guy with deathly white skin — barks out, “You lot get ’em in the van! The rest of you get this fucker!” And the sound of his voice spurs the rest of them into action.

Six of them turn and form a line behind the nasty-looking guy, blocking iBoy’s way to the Transit, while the others carry on manhandling the girls into the back of the van. iBoy knows that he doesn’t have much time now. If they get the girls into the van and drive them away, it’ll be too late.

So he doesn’t waste any time thinking about what to do, he just does it.

He keeps running, heading straight for Nasty, and just as he reaches him, just as Nasty is pulling a knife from his pocket, iBoy screams like a madman and throws himself at Nasty and blasts out a huge burst of power. An earsplitting
CRACK!
rips through the air, and just for a moment everything disappears in a blinding flash of electric blue. The power and heat of it is so intense that it singes the hairs on the back of iBoy’s arm.

He stands there for a few seconds, waiting for the afterimage of the flash to fade from his eyes, and then he looks down at the bodies on the ground. There are seven of them. Some are still semiconscious — groaning weakly, coughing and spluttering, rubbing their eyes — but most of them have been knocked out. They’re just lying there on the ground, perfectly still. Nasty has taken the worst of it. He’s lying on his back, about six feet away from iBoy, his face burned red and his eyebrows smoldering. His nylon hooded jacket has melted into his skin, and he’s bleeding from his ears, nose, and mouth.

iBoy looks up at the others — the ones at the back of the van with the girls. The two nearest to him are on their knees, holding their heads in their hands. Another two are already running off toward Fitzroy House. And the last two are still holding the girls, but not making any effort to move.

“Let them go,” iBoy says.

They let them go, and the two girls stagger toward iBoy.

“You OK?” he asks them.

“Yeah . . . I think so,” one of them says, gazing around at the bodies on the ground.

The other one doesn’t say anything. She’s crying.

“Where do you live?” iBoy asks the first one.

“Disraeli.”

“Are you all right to get back on your own?”

She nods.

“Sure?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Go on, then,” he says gently. “You’ll be all right now. Just go straight home, OK?”

She looks at him, hesitating, and iBoy can see the questions in her eyes — who are you? what are you? what have you done to these boys?

“I think you’d better get your friend home now,” he says to her. “She’s pretty shaken up.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, of course,” the first girl says, moving over to her friend and putting her arm round her. She says a few comforting words to her, wipes some tears from her face, then turns back to iBoy. “Thanks,” she says, smiling. “I mean, whoever you are . . . thanks.”

He smiles back at her.

She nods, turns round, and the two of them start walking back.

iBoy watches them for a moment, making sure that they’re both OK, then he turns back to the two boys at the van. They haven’t moved.

“You waiting for something?” he says to them.

They shake their heads.

“Well, fuck off, then.”

They run.

iBoy walks round to the front of the van. The driver’s door is open, but there’s no one inside. Whoever was driving must have run off at some point. iBoy leans in, pulls the keys from the ignition, and drops them to the ground. He puts his finger to the ignition and gives it a quick zap. The dashboard glows, the engine roars, then sparks start crackling and popping under the hood. Within a few seconds, smoke starts rising from the engine and flickering blue flames begin to appear.

iBoy shuts the van door, spits on the ground, and walks away.

He doesn’t look back.

CROW LANE “SUPERHERO”

Local police are concerned by reports of a so-called “superhero” fighting crime on the Crow Lane Estate. Witnesses have described several incidents in which a mysterious figure has been seen taking the law into his own hands in the vicinity of the notorious high-rise tower blocks. One resident, who wishes to remain anonymous, told the
Southwark Gazette
how she was recently saved from a mugging by “a masked man in a hooded costume.” “He just appeared out of nowhere,” she said. “There was a bright blue flash, which blinded me for a moment, and the next thing I knew the muggers were running away.” When asked if the police condoned the “superhero’s” deeds, a spokesman said, “While the intentions of this individual may be good, the way he’s going about them is wrong. The police strongly advise against all forms of vigilante action, and we would urge this person, whoever he is, to let the police do their job.”

http://www.southwarkgazette.co.uk/home/090410/local

When I woke up on Monday, I felt as if I’d just woken up from a very long and intensely vivid dream. It was a really strange sensation, because I knew that the things in my head that felt like dream memories were actually real memories — memories of the last ten days. And I knew that I hadn’t been dreaming for the last ten days . . .

But I still felt as if I had.

I lay in bed for a while, trying not to think about it, trying instead to just feel perfectly normal . . . but it’s hard not to think about something when you’re lying in your bed, just staring at the ceiling, acutely aware that you’re trying not to think about something . . . and it’s even harder to feel perfectly normal when it’s perfectly obvious you’re not.

So, in the end, I gave up.

I got out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed.

When I went into the kitchen, Gram was sitting at the table, holding what looked like a bank statement in her hand.

“Morning, Gram,” I said, sitting down. “How are you —?”

“What’s this, Tommy?” she said sternly.

“Sorry?”

“This,” she repeated, waving the bank statement at me. “Fifteen thousand pounds, deposited anonymously into my bank account on the thirty-first of March.” She glared at me. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Me?” I said, feigning surprise and indignation, while at the same time mentally kicking myself for forgetting all about it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about this,” she said, passing me the statement and pointing out the deposit. “Look . . . see? Someone’s put fifteen thousand pounds into my account.”

I smiled at her. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

She glared at me again. “Not if I don’t know who it’s from or what it’s for.”

I shrugged. “Does it matter? I mean, money’s money —”

“Yes, Tommy. It
matters
.”

I looked at the bank statement. “Maybe it’s from your publishers,” I suggested. “A bonus or something . . .”

“A
bonus
?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t know, do I?”

“It’s not from my publishers, I’ve already checked. And the bank can’t tell me who it’s from either.” She looked at me. “Are you
sure
you don’t know anything about it?”

“Why would I?”

Gram hesitated.

“What?” I asked her.

She looked me in the eye. “You’d tell me if you were in any trouble, wouldn’t you?”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

She shook her head. “Look, I know how hard it is . . . around here, I mean. It’s so easy to get mixed up with the wrong kind of people —”

“Gram,” I said, genuinely confused. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She reached across and put her hand on mine. “Just tell me the truth, Tommy. Did you get that money from somewhere and put it into my account?”

I shook my head. “Where would I get that kind of money from?”

“Where does
any
one get that kind of money from in Crow Town?”

I stared at her. “You think I’m selling drugs?”

She shrugged. “I’m just asking —”

“
Christ
, Gram,” I said angrily. “You really think I’d do that?”

“So, you’re not?”

“No,” I sighed. “I’m not.”

“And you’re not thieving or anything either?”

I sighed again. “How can you even
think
anything like that?”

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” she said. “But it happens . . . it can happen to anyone. Even someone like you. I mean, I
know
that you’re a really good person, a really decent person, and I
know
that you love me . . . but I also know that
because
you love me, you’d do almost anything to help me. And if you knew that I was in financial difficulties . . . well, you might do the wrong thing to help me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, of course I understand. But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Gram looked at me, nodding her head, then she picked up some letters from the table. “This,” she said, showing me one of the letters, “this is confirmation that my council tax arrears have been paid off.” She put down the letter and showed me another one. “And this is a statement showing that I’m all up-to-date on the rent payments.” She looked at me. “Did you know I owed all this money?”

“No,” I lied.

“Did you pay these bills?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

Gram sighed. “Well, someone did, and it wasn’t me.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say then, so I just sat there, trying to look innocent.

Gram sat there in silence for a while, too, just looking at the letters, occasionally shaking her head . . . and then, eventually, she said to me, “Look, Tommy, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you or offended you or anything, but I had to ask. It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do. And even if you
were
mixed up in something illegal, I’d still love you.” She smiled at me. “And, besides, you
have
been acting a bit strangely recently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re either in your room all day, doing God knows what, or you’re out all the time . . . especially at night. And you seem so preoccupied, so worried about things, and you look really tired —”

“I’ve been studying.”

“Studying?”

I nodded. “In my room . . . at the library. I’ve missed a lot of school, so I thought I’d try to catch up a bit on my own.”

Gram frowned at me. “Really?”

“Yeah . . . what’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?”

“Well, I’m not saying that I don’t
believe
you —”

“Test me.”

“Sorry?”

“You can test me. I’ll
prove
to you that I’ve been studying.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to
prove
anything.”

“No, go on,” I insisted. “I’ve been studying British post-war history. Ask me a question.”

“Don’t be silly, Tommy. I believe you.”

“Post-war history,” I repeated. “1946 to the present day.”

“I’m not going to —”

“Any question you like.”

“All right,” Gram sighed wearily. “If you insist —”

“I do.”

“OK, let me think a minute . . .”

While she thought of a question to ask, I went inside my head and opened up Google. I was feeling kind of sick of myself now, wishing that I’d never got into this whole stupid lying thing . . . wishing that I could just tell Gram the truth. The whole truth. But I couldn’t, could I? How could I tell her the truth? How could I tell her that her grandson wasn’t normal anymore, that he had extraordinary powers, and that he was using those powers to seek out and punish the world of people who’d beaten and raped Lucy — the world of the O’Neil brothers, the world of Paul Adebajo and DeWayne Firman, the world of Jayden Carroll and Yusef Hashim and Carl Patrick . . . the world of Howard Ellman.

How could I tell Gram that?

And how could I tell her that her grandson was afraid that he was not only beginning to lose any sense of compassion he may once have had, but also that he was beginning to lose his mind . . . ?

How
could
I tell her that?

I couldn’t, could I?

I just couldn’t.

And I hated myself for that.

“Who was the prime minister in 1956?”

I looked at Gram. “What?”

“You
asked
me to ask you a question,” she said. “About post-war history.”

“Oh, right . . . yeah.”

“That’s my question — who was the prime minister in 1956?”

I looked inside my head at a website of British prime ministers:

. . . Eden replaced
Winston Churchill
as prime minister in April 1955. Later that year he attended a summit conference at Geneva with the heads of government of the USA, France, and the Soviet Union . . .

“Sir Anthony Eden,” I said.

Gram looked surprised. “Very good.”

“He was succeeded by Harold Macmillan on 10 January 1957,” I added, “and he spent his later years writing his memoirs, which were published in three volumes between 1960 and 1965. He also wrote an account of his war experiences called
Another World
, which was published in 1976.” I smiled at Gram. “He died in 1977.”

Gram shook her head in disbelief. “You really
have
been studying.”

“I told you, didn’t I.”

“I’m impressed.”

You shouldn’t be
, I thought.

“Yeah, well,” I said, looking at the clock on the wall. “I’ll be off to the library again now, if that’s OK.” I grinned at her. “Get some more studying done.”