CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE BOOK
PRAISE
TITLE PAGE
PART ONE
1 Thrown Away
2 The Chuckle Brothers
3 Feeding Time
4 The Deal
5 Homework
6 Kim’s Game
PART TWO
7 Weapons
8 Surveillance
9 The Bleak Midwinter
10 The Picture
11 Keeper’s House
12 Magic Tricks
13 Trident
PART THREE
14 Izzy’s Escape
15 The Blind Spot
16 Sneak Thief
17 NI
18 Happy Valley
19 All Souls
20 Tracked
21 Flashbang
22 Alone Again
23 Something Good and Clever
ENDGAME: FIRST LOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY CHRIS RYAN
COPYRIGHT
The One That Got Away
AGENT 21 series
Agent 21
Agent 21: Reloaded
Agent 21: Codebreaker
Deadfall
CODE RED series
Flash Flood
Wildfire
Outbreak
Vortex
Twister
Battleground
ALPHA FORCE series
Survival
Rat-Catcher
Desert
Pursuit
Hostage
Red Centre
Hunted
Blood Money
Fault Line
Black Gold
Untouchable
Published by the Random House Group for adult readers:
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The One That Got Away
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide
Fight to Win: Deadly Skills of the Elite Forces
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Stand By, Stand By
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
Ultimate Weapon
Strike Back
Firefight
Who Dares Wins
One Good Turn (Adult Quick Read for World Book Day 2008)
‘Gripping from the off’
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that hits all the right spots’
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that he is a master of suspense’
Waterstones Books Quarterly
You can find Chris on Twitter
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UNDER COVER
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 409 02677 8
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2015
Copyright © Chris Ryan, 2015
Cover artwork © Stephen Mulcahey
Photography © Jonny Ring
First Published in Great Britain
Red Fox 9781849410113 2015
The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
It’s always dark at night. But some places are darker than others. St Peter’s Crag was one of those places.
It was 2 a.m. on 3 January. Christmas was long forgotten, as were any New Year celebrations. Not that many celebrations ever occurred here. A strong wind howled as it circled this bleak rocky outcrop in the North Sea. Waves crashed against the sharp rocks that surrounded the island. Even in fine weather, it was very difficult to approach by sea. Tonight it would be impossible.
A solitary figure in a black oilskin coat struggled across the barren terrain towards the building that sat alone in the middle of St Peter’s Crag. His name was Stan. Stan had learned long ago that, on nights like this, it was better to stay in the warm protection of his small stone house on the north of the island. But on this particular night, he had work to do, so he was braving the storm.
Stan thought of himself as a caretaker. As a young man he had been a soldier, and this job suited someone who was used to taking orders and not asking questions. He looked after the strange inhabitants of this island. There were three of them, most of the time. A man and a woman in their late-twenties, who called themselves Raf and Gabs, though Stan strongly suspected these were not their real names. And a teenager called Zak. Occasionally a fourth man, who called himself Michael, would arrive. The others looked up to him – he was obviously their boss. From time to time, a helicopter would arrive to ferry everyone except Stan from the island. Sometimes they were gone for weeks. Whenever they returned they were tired and grimy, and in need of the food and other supplies with which Stan kept the house well stocked.
Stan wasn’t stupid. He knew that Raf, Gabs and Zak had jobs that could only be described as ‘secret’ – although what a kid like Zak could offer this secret world, Stan had no idea. He also understood that he would never know the whole story.
At first he hadn’t minded being kept in the dark. His job was simply to look after the place. But as time passed he had grown resentful. He didn’t like the way conversations suddenly stopped when he entered the room. He didn’t like the way he was expected to stay, by himself, in his lonely quarters while the others had the thing that was in shortest supply on this desolate island: company. He didn’t like how, whenever his fellow islanders saw him, they said to each other: ‘It’s only Stan.’
So when, during one of his infrequent trips to the mainland, someone had approached Stan and offered him a life-changing amount of money to perform them a certain service, they’d got lucky. Stan wanted to retire, and his paltry pension wouldn’t cover much. Even worse, in his solitude he’d developed a habit for online poker. An expensive habit. He now owed more than he could ever repay.
I heard you had some money troubles, Stan, the man had said. You think your employers will help you with that? You think they care about your problems? But we can, Stan. We can make those troubles go away just like that . . . The man had clicked his fingers. You just need to do us a little favour . . .
‘This blimmin’ wind,’ Stan muttered to himself as he struggled against the elements. It felt like the gale was pushing him back from the house. He slipped and fell, jarring his knee badly and making him drop the briefcase he was holding. He cursed, then pushed himself to his feet again and continued towards the house.
The big main door was firmly locked. To its side there was an electronic keypad. Stan faced it and typed in a number. A beam of red light shot from the keypad and scanned his retina. Stan’s eyeball allowed him to gain access to this secret place.
It has to be you, you see, Stan? You’re the only person who can get around that island without raising suspicion.
The main door clicked open. Stan stepped inside.
Water dripped from his oilskin onto the chequerboard floor of the dark hallway as he closed the door behind him. The howling of the wind immediately stopped. This was a solid old house. He removed his wet coat, let it fall to the floor, then put the briefcase down and opened it up. It contained two hypodermic syringes in plastic casings, and a torch. Stan took the syringes and headed through the pitch black towards the big old staircase leading up from the hallway.
Thirty seconds later he was walking along a first-floor corridor. At the very end of the corridor was the room young Zak used. But Zak wasn’t here tonight. He was off doing something ‘secret’, whisked off just after noon that very day by helicopter.
It will be when the kid isn’t there, the man had said. That’s very important, Stan. Do you understand? Soon as we see him leave, it needs to happen.
Of the three of them, he liked Zak best. Stan was glad he wasn’t on the island tonight.
He continued along the corridor and stopped outside the third door on the left. He touched his thumb to the white doorknob. It recognized his fingerprint and clicked quietly open.
Stan knew better than to step inside immediately. This was Raf’s bedroom, and Raf would be aware of an intruder immediately. Sure enough, as the door swung open, he made out the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure approaching him.
‘’S only me,’ said Stan.
The figure stopped two metres from the doorway. Stan could see that he was wearing pyjama bottoms, but was bare-chested.
‘Blimey, mate,’ said Raf. ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night?’
‘Intruders on the island, sir. Thought you ought to know.’
Stan could just make out Raf’s blond hair and chiselled face. Raf frowned. ‘I didn’t hear any aircraft,’ he said as he strode through the doorway. Stan stepped aside to let him past. Then, as soon as Raf had his back to him, he lifted one of the syringes and stabbed it firmly into the muscular flesh of Raf’s shoulder blades just as he’d been instructed.
Time slowed down. Stan’s stomach sank as he saw Raf spin round, his face suddenly creased with anger.
The injection hadn’t worked.
But a fraction of a second later, the broad-shouldered man’s eyes rolled into the top of his head and he collapsed.
Stan was breathing deeply, and sweating. He knew he didn’t have time to regain his breath. He walked to the next door on the right. Once again, he pressed his thumbprint onto the white doorknob. Once again, it clicked open.
‘’S only Stan,’ he said.
There was even less time now. Clearly alerted by the noise in the corridor, Gabs was already in the doorway. She wore a tight vest top and pyjama bottoms, and her blonde, shoulder-length hair was messy. But she moved like lightning, straight past Stan, whom she barely acknowledged.
Stan raised his second syringe and stabbed it into her shoulder. The muscles here were not as big as Raf’s, but they were at least as tough. For a horrific moment, Stan thought the needle hadn’t entered her body. She spun round and raised one hand, palm out, fingers together. She struck him hard in the neck. Stan’s knees went immediately. Gasping for breath, and losing his grip on the syringe, he sank to the floor.
But so did Gabs. With the syringe still sticking out of her shoulder, she collapsed unconscious, just as Raf had done.
Silence.
Stan rubbed his neck as he got to his feet. He shuffled on the spot for a moment, then suddenly kicked Gabs as hard as he could. Her prone body didn’t move.
Muttering to himself, Stan stumbled back along the corridor, down the stairs and into the hallway, where his oilskin and briefcase were still lying on the floor by the door. He pulled the wet coat on again, then retrieved the torch from the case and opened the door.
Make sure they’re both unconscious before you make the sign. That’s very important, Stan. Can you remember that?
The howling of the wind hit his ears again as he stepped outside. It had grown stronger, and the clouds up above were scudding quickly across the sky. Standing on the threshold of the house, he raised the torch. Using the pulse button, he shot three short beams towards the heavens. There was no visible light – this was an infra-red torch – and although Stan wasn’t expecting any, he still found himself examining it carefully before repeating the sign. He hoped the torch was working, because if Raf and Gabs woke up before reinforcements came, he’d really be in trouble . . . Stan had seen them training, and he knew how fit and strong they were.
A silent sheet of lightning filled the sky. A few seconds later there was a boom of thunder from many miles off. Then a helicopter emerged suddenly from the boiling clouds.
It was clearly having difficulty in the high winds. Stan had seen many helicopters land on St Peter’s Crag. In general, they avoided weather like this, and with good reason. Stan had never seen a helicopter shake and spin so violently as it struggled to land on the open ground in front of the house. He felt his mouth go dry.
You’ll come with us in the helicopter when we leave, the man had said. We’ll give you your money then, and help you disappear . . .
Stan didn’t want to get into the chopper in these high winds, but he knew that staying on the island was no longer an option. He wrapped his oilskin more tightly around him as he watched the chopper touch down and two men emerge. He squinted to see what they looked like. They were wearing black clothes and balaclavas. Ugly-looking guns hung across their chests from slings. With their heads bowed against the downdraught of the helicopter, they sprinted towards the house.
It only took them a few seconds to reach Stan. They said nothing, but one of the masked men put his head to one side, as though asking a question.
‘F-first floor,’ Stan said nervously. ‘’S all done, just like he said.’ He pointed toward the helicopter. ‘Should I . . .?’
‘Stay there, old man,’ said one of the figures. He seemed a lot less friendly than the guy Stan had made the deal with. He had a foreign accent. Spanish, maybe. Or Mexican.
Stan nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right you are.’
But the men had already slipped into the house, leaving Stan out in the wind, still clutching the infra-red torch. He shuffled on the spot again for a couple of minutes. The men returned. Each of them had a body over his shoulder – Raf and Gabs. They looked very limp. If Stan hadn’t known they were unconscious, he might have thought they were . . .
‘Wait there,’ said one of the masked men.
‘Right,’ Stan muttered. ‘Righto . . .’
The figures hurried with their cargo towards the helicopter. Through the darkness, Stan could just make out some more figures dragging Raf and Gabs into the chopper. He found he was holding his breath. He looked over his shoulder, then back to the chopper. A horrible thought crossed his mind – maybe they weren’t intending to come back for him. Maybe they were just going to fly off and leave him here . . .
But no. With relief, he saw the two figures running back up towards him from the chopper. When they were about ten metres away, they slowed down.
‘Shall I come, then?’ Stan asked. ‘Shall I come along to the heli— W-what – what are you doing?’
Stan’s stomach had turned to ice. One of the two men had lifted his gun and was pointing it directly at him. The other pulled off his balaclava. He was a thin young man – too young, Stan thought, to be carrying a gun – with cold, cruel eyes. He was standing five metres from Stan’s position.
‘Who . . . who are you?’ Stan stammered.
The young man inclined his head. ‘My name is Cruz Martinez.’ His tone of voice indicated that he thought Stan should recognize the name. But Stan didn’t, and it obviously showed in his face. ‘I’m a little disappointed that your precious Agent 21 hasn’t mentioned me.’
Stan blinked heavily. ‘Put them guns down,’ he said.
They didn’t.
Stan staggered backwards. His limbs were heavy with fear.
‘’S only me,’ he said. ‘’S only Stan.’ He was terrified by the fierce, keen look in the young man’s eyes.
‘You,’ Cruz Martinez said, lowering his gun so that it was pointing at Stan’s knees, and speaking as insultingly as possible, ‘are a stupid . . .’
He fired as he said the word. A single shot that echoed through the air and slammed straight into Stan’s right knee. A shriek of pain shot through him as he collapsed. Blood oozed down his shin.
‘Old . . .’ Cruz said, and he fired a second round into Stan’s left knee.
The pain was beyond imagining. Stan tried to shout out, but the sudden violence had robbed him of his voice.
Cruz Martinez stood above him. Now he was pointing the gun at Stan’s head, the wind blowing his hair wildly, and his cold eyes were brighter than ever.
‘Man,’ he said.
Police!
How many?
Two on the north side, three on the south.
Are they going to be a problem?
I hope not. We’ll keep an eye on them. If they look like causing trouble, we’ll move somewhere else.
But Ricky Mahoney didn’t want to move anywhere else. This was the best place in London for what he had in mind.
Ricky wasn’t like other fourteen-year-old kids. It wasn’t just the scruffy clothes or the second-hand trainers with the holes in them that made him different. It wasn’t just that he had spent the past year and a half living by himself, with no adults, in a sordid room in an overcrowded, falling-down old Victorian house in north-east London. It wasn’t just that, by his own admission, he was a sneak, a pickpocket and a thief.
It was his habit of talking to himself that made Ricky think he was really weird. All day he discussed things in his head with an imaginary accomplice called Ziggy. Totally crazy, but Ricky didn’t care. Because when you don’t have any real friends, sometimes imaginary ones will do just as well.
Ziggy was an argumentative so-and-so. Right now he was picking apart one of Ricky’s little lessons in the finer points of petty crime.
– It’s the ones with the phones that get me, Ricky said. He never spoke to Ziggy out loud. Their conversations always took place in his head.
– What do you mean? What’s wrong with them?
Ricky never carried a phone. He had no need for it. If he ever managed to steal a decent one, though, he knew a place in the East End where he could sell it for up to fifty quid. So he always found it a bit weird how everyone else was so obsessed with them.
– Well, how many people can we see? Five hundred? And half of them are staring at their screens or taking selfies. Seriously, I could pick the pocket of any one of them, easy as falling off a log.
– Then why don’t you do it? Your rent’s due tomorrow, and we haven’t eaten for two days.
Good point. Ricky’s stomach rumbled. He needed a meal.
He was leaning against one of the stone lions in Trafalgar Square, having worked out ages ago that this was a good place to be invisible. Invisible was how he liked to be. Invisible was good for a pickpocket. There were loads of other young people there. Some of them were splashing in the fountains. Some were chasing pigeons across the square. Others were kicking their heels behind their mum and dad as if they were in the middle of the world’s most boring day. Nobody would ever notice just one more kid loitering by the lions.
Trafalgar Square had another advantage. There were always tourists there. Packs of them, staring up to the top of Nelson’s Column and barely paying any attention to what was going on around them. These tourists were easy pickings. They were like walking cash machines where you didn’t even need to use a cash card to withdraw your money.
– Hold up. Who’s that?
– Where?
– Over there. North side of the square. A couple of Thrownaways.
‘Thrownaways’ was the word Ricky used for the homeless kids who worked the streets of London. They were everywhere, if you just opened your eyes and looked – which most people didn’t, of course. At night they met in the dingier parts of King’s Cross or under the bridges that spanned the Thames. The Thrownaways were a rough bunch who congregated in gangs, which could be aggressive and violent – Ricky kept his distance. He’d only ever had one proper encounter with them. He glanced down at the wrist of his left hand to see a pale white scar following the line of his arm. It was a reminder of how that little encounter had ended badly for him.
He squinted as he looked across the square. A girl about his own age was standing half a metre behind a Japanese man taking a photo of his girlfriend. A boy was walking swiftly in her direction. He’d be next to her in about five seconds. They made momentary eye contact.
– Watch this. Oldest technique in the book.
The girl stretched out her left hand. She slipped it into the side pocket of the Japanese man’s linen jacket. When she removed it, she was carrying something. A wallet. It all happened very quickly, like the flicking of a gecko’s tongue.
Now the boy was right behind her, still walking. Even Ricky couldn’t see the moment when the wallet changed hands. The boy disappeared into the crowd. For all Ricky knew, he’d already handed the wallet to a third accomplice. A few seconds later, the Japanese man was asking the girl to take a photo of him and his girlfriend. She agreed with a smile.
– Quite nicely done, Ricky thought grudgingly.
– You could join the Thrownaways if you wanted, you know. Get someone to work as your partner. It’s safer that way.
– Well, I don’t want to. If we had a partner, they’d grass us up if things got tricky. The do-gooders would have their hands on us before we knew it.
And anyway, Ricky thought, he hadn’t been ‘thrown away’ in the first place. He’d left home – if you wanted to call it that – of his own accord. And he wasn’t a street kid, exactly. He wasn’t living in a doorway or a cardboard box, or under a bridge, or even in a hostel. He had a place to stay. In his position, little things like that made a difference. It was a question of pride – even if it did mean having old Baxter as a landlord.
He continued to scan the crowd and ignored the gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach. Ziggy was right. Today was Thursday. He hadn’t eaten since Tuesday lunch time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been busy. Far from it. He’d grabbed three wallets since then. Forty pounds in the first, twenty in the second and fifty in the third. A good haul, but not enough yet to pay his monthly rent to old Baxter. Ricky’s vile landlord would be round for his money tomorrow evening, which meant Ricky had to turn at least one more trick. Especially if he also wanted to eat.
He picked out a couple of possibles. There was a mum pushing her kid in a pushchair. Ricky never pickpocketed young mums. It didn’t seem fair, somehow. His eyes picked out a harassed-looking teacher with a bunch of school kids. No way. The teacher wouldn’t be a problem, but Ricky knew that children were more observant than adults. They saw everything.
– So just go for one of the idiots looking at their phones, Ziggy suggested, if they’re so easy.
– Nah. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Got to keep your skills fresh.
– Oh, come on, Ricky. You must have stolen two hundred wallets in your time. You’ve never been caught.
– Yeah. Because I keep my skills fresh.
He continued to scan the crowds. A few seconds later, his eyes locked onto a man walking towards Nelson’s Column from the north-west corner of the square. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A black guy, his head was bald and shiny, and he wore a blue cagoule, even though there was no sign of rain. He seemed to be sweating a lot – as he walked, he patted his bald pate with a handkerchief. What was more important, the cagoule was flapping open, its unzipped outer pockets clearly visible, a map of the tube sticking out of the man’s trouser pocket.
– A tourist, Ricky thought. He bent down and undid the lace of his right shoe. Then he jumped down from the plinth on which the stone lion sat. He walked twenty paces north before turning ninety degrees to the right. Ten paces, he reckoned, before his path crossed his target’s. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, and even from a distance he could tell where the wallet was – the right-hand pocket of the man’s cagoule was slightly weighted down, as though it contained something heavy. In Ricky’s line of work, heavy wallets were the best kind. He also saw something he hadn’t noticed from his vantage point on the plinth. The man had a stout walking stick in his right hand, and walked with a slight limp.
Five paces.
– Here goes.
Ricky was a metre away from the man when he ‘tripped’ over his undone shoelace. It was, he thought, quite an impressive fall – one that he had practised in private probably a hundred times until he could do it without hurting himself. But now, splayed on the hard ground directly in front of the man’s feet, he screwed up his face in pain and started to shake.
The man stopped. He looked down at the figure sprawled at his feet. ‘What the hell’s this?’ he said. ‘Are you auditioning for Coco the Clown?’ He sounded like he had something in his mouth, and Ricky realized he was sucking a sweet.
‘Ow!’ Ricky wiped away a non-existent tear with the back of his left hand. He held his hand up, so the man could pull him to his feet. The man peered at him. He looked slightly amused.
– Don’t do it, Ziggy warned. Don’t pick his pocket. This one’s not as stupid as he looks.
– It’ll be fine.
A weighty wallet was worth a bit of risk.
Ricky staggered up. As he did so, he slipped his right hand into the man’s cagoule pocket. Sure enough, there was a fat wallet hiding inside.
– There you go. Easy as falling off a—
‘You should do your laces up, Coco,’ the man said.
‘Yeah,’ Ricky said, looking directly into the man’s eyes to stop his target’s gaze from wandering. The man returned the stare with a strange sort of half-smile.
‘Probably.’ He had the wallet in his fist now. It felt good and heavy. He slipped it up into his right-hand sleeve where he had sewn a little pocket.
– Job done.
‘Unless you’re planning another pratfall sometime soon.’
Ricky hesitated, just for a moment.
– He knows you were faking it.
– No he doesn’t. He’s just a weirdo who wants to chat.
But Ricky did feel a little uneasy as he got down onto one knee and started doing up the lace. The man was standing over him.
‘Would you like a sweet?’ the man asked. ‘I’ve got some here somewhere.’ He started patting down his cagoule with his free hand.
‘No, really,’ said Ricky as the man’s hands drifted alarmingly close to the pocket that had once held his wallet. ‘I . . . I don’t really eat sweets.’
The man blinked in surprise. ‘Weird,’ he murmured. ‘Still, if you’re sure.’
‘Quite sure, thanks.’
‘OK. No sweets. But there is one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘You should probably give me my wallet back.’
Ricky froze. His laces were still undone as he got to his feet. ‘I don’t know what you—’
‘It’s up your right sleeve. Just in case you’ve forgotten.’ The man grinned, and Ricky saw a mouthful of yellowing and rotten teeth. ‘Happens to the best of us.’
Ricky sized the man up. He was tall and looked strong, but there was that walking stick, not to mention the limp. Ricky, on the other hand, was thin and gangly. A bit of a weakling. Rubbish at fighting.
But fast.
And he knew that sometimes you have to play to your strengths.
His mouth was dry. His heart was pumping.
– Run! said Ziggy.
Ricky ran.
Crowds, Ricky had noticed, always seem busier when you’re trying to escape them. He felt his loose shoelaces whipping round his ankles as he swerved at top speed around the tourists. His pulse was racing as he approached the busy road circling Trafalgar Square.
– Mind the cars! Ziggy screamed.
The road was crammed full of buses, black cabs and other vehicles. A couple of them sounded their horn furiously as Ricky sprinted across the road towards the Strand, dodging the moving cars as he went.
He was sweating heavily by the time he made it safely to the other side. He allowed himself a moment to look over his shoulder.
The man was standing on the edge of Trafalgar Square. He didn’t look flustered. In fact, he still had that slightly amused look on his face as he stared directly at Ricky.
– He makes me nervous.
– Me too.
– You couldn’t fool him.
– Thanks for the reminder.
– Maybe your skills aren’t so awesome after all.
– Shut up, Ziggy.
Ricky looked forward and started running again, east along the Strand.
He figured that anyone in pursuit would expect him to head north and get lost in the side streets of Covent Garden. But there was a little shortcut he knew – some steps that headed south off the Strand towards the river. He stopped at the top of them and looked back again. No sign of the man. With a limp and a walking stick he wouldn’t be moving fast – unless he was good at hopping. Ricky descended two steps at a time. At the bottom, he stopped to regain his breath and tie his shoelaces, his back against a brick wall.
– Relax!
– I’m trying . . .
His hands were trembling. He’d come so close to being caught, and he knew what that would mean. A march down to the police station, and before he knew it he’d be back in care. The do-gooders would have him in their clutches, good and proper.
– What’s in the wallet?
Still crouching down after tying his laces, Ricky removed the wallet from his sleeve and opened it up. He grinned. It was stuffed full of notes. He reckoned there were several hundred pounds in there. There were also nine or ten credit cards. Ricky pulled a couple of cards out and immediately saw that they had different names on them: R. F. E. Martin and Mr Jim Daniels. He flicked through some more of the cards. Dr H. Newland. Mr Godfrey S. Davies. There was a driving licence and a library card, both with a photo of the man – the black skin, the bald head – but each with a different name.
– What is he? Some sort of criminal? A fraudster?
– You’ve messed with the wrong guy.
Ricky tucked the cards back into the wallet. He wouldn’t try to use any of them. If the police were after this guy, they’d be monitoring his cards and that would be a great way to lead them to Ricky. The cash, though, was a different matter – completely untraceable. Ricky tucked the wallet into his pocket. He was already imagining the food he’d buy with it. A burger, maybe. Extra fries. Large milkshake . . .
‘Are you sure you won’t have a sweet, Coco?’
Ricky’s blood froze as a shadow fell over him. A metre away he saw two feet and the bottom of a walking stick. He looked up.
The man still had a slight smile. But there was a hint of steel in his eyes.
– He’s bad news. All those identities, could be organized crime. You don’t want to get mixed up in that. Just give him the wallet and get out of here.
Ricky eased himself to his feet. He removed the wallet from his pocket and handed it over.
‘Thank you very much,’ said the man in his deep voice. ‘I’m wondering if you happened to take a look inside?’
Ricky shook his head.
‘Names,’ the man continued, obviously not believing him. ‘Some are more suitable than others for different occasions. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Billy,’ Ricky lied instinctively.
The man looked delighted. ‘You see how easy it is! Now you have three names – Billy, Coco and whatever your real one is.’
‘Right,’ Ricky said. Today was getting weirder by the second. So was this bloke. ‘Er, are you going to tell the police about me?’
‘The police? God, no. They can be very tiresome at times.’ He pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet. ‘Are you hungry?’ he said.
Ricky couldn’t help but nod.
‘Me too. So why don’t I buy you something to eat, and I can tell you where you went wrong?’
Something to eat. Ricky salivated at the thought.
– Don’t be stupid, Ziggy told him. This guy’s trouble. Smile sweetly and get out of here.
Ricky edged along the wall, back towards the steps. The man gave a little shrug and offered him the twenty-pound note anyway. Uncertainly, Ricky took it. But the moment the man released it from his fingers, he grabbed Ricky’s wrist. It was a tight grip, and made Ricky wince.
‘Every lie needs an element of truth, Coco,’ the man said. ‘Next time you try the pratfall, make sure there’s some blood. Knee, elbow, anywhere. Use the fake stuff if you have it, it’s pretty good. If I’d seen that, you might have got away with it.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘And when you know you’re faster than someone, run in a straight line. Otherwise they might out-think you, like I just did. And you’ve got to admit, it’s a bit embarrassing being caught by a man with only one leg.’
‘What?’
The man released his grip and Ricky staggered towards the steps.
‘Afraid so,’ the man said. He tapped the lower half of his leg with his stick. It made a dull, clunking sound.
– Good skills, Ziggy said slyly. Outrun by a bloke with one—
– Shut up, Ziggy.
Now Ricky really wanted to get out of there.
‘Tell me, Coco.’
‘What?’
The man smiled, once more revealing the teeth of a man who ate more sweets than was good for him. ‘Do you want a job?’
– A job? What sort of job would a guy like him be offering?
‘Course not,’ he said.
‘Oh. Shame. But I’ll tell you what – put that twenty-pound note in your shoe. By far the safest place for it.’
‘Right.’
The man made his way up the steps. ‘And, Coco?’
Ricky stopped and looked back. ‘What?’
‘You can call me Felix,’ the man said. ‘One name’s as good as another, and maybe we’ll meet again.’
In your dreams, Ricky thought as he scrambled up the steps, and away from the weirdo with no hair but many names. In your dreams.
Home, for Ricky, was a single room in a dilapidated house on the outskirts of Hackney. The other occupants of the house changed from week to week, but Ricky had learned not to talk to them anyway. No normal person would stay there. The whole house stank of rotten wood and mildew and there was the scurrying sound of rodents in the ceiling day and night. The room itself contained nothing but a single bed and a sink in the corner with a tap that never stopped dripping. Nobody ever cleaned the toilet that he had to share with several others, and as a result it was too disgusting for words.