The Dead (35 page)

‘Its proper name was the Bethlem Royal Hospital. For mad people.’

‘A loony bin?’ said Froggie, his big eyes wide.

‘Yes. It was nicknamed Bedlam. It’s where the word comes from.’

‘What word?’ said Froggie.

‘Never mind.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ Froggie asked.

‘There are lots of things I don’t know,’ said Wiki seriously.

‘What’s the weirdest thing you know?’

‘I know how to say “the toenails of my grandfather’s elder brother are stiff” in Indonesian.’

‘Yeah? Go on then.’

‘OK –
Kuku-kuku kaki kakak kakekku kaku kaku
.’

‘You made that up.’

‘No I didn’t. It’s true. “
Kuku-kuku kaki kakak kakekku kaku kaku
” means “the toenails of my grandfather’s elder brother are stiff” in Indonesian. Now look out! She’s coming!’

Frédérique could smell them. Hiding behind the tank. Oh, they were ripe. Fresh and ripe. Not like the muck she’d been forced to eat at lunch. That had been poisoned, she was sure of it now; the other children had tried to poison her – they’d never liked her. She was different in some way. And they knew it. She wasn’t one of them.

She was French.

They’d been hiding the good food. Keeping it for themselves. But she knew how to get at it. It was inside them.

The smell of them was making her salivate. Her mouth was full of liquid. It spilt over her lips. God, but she was hungry.

There they were, the two boys, two little piggies. She breathed in their stench, could already taste them. The smaller one, Froggie. He would be so tender. The soft flesh. The blood. Young and fresh and alive, electric, pulsing, pure, and full of red, red life …

She was gripped by a spasm that sent her whole body rigid. It felt like all her bones must break, snap under the strain. Electricity was running through her, power, fire, metal, red, food …

Zohra was watching Frédérique move in on Froggie and Wiki.

‘Get away!’ she shouted, glad it wasn’t her over there. Frédérique was too good at this game. She was making it too real. Froggie and Wiki were bumping into each other and yelling as they tried to dodge the tall girl’s grasping hands.

‘Run, Froggie!’ Zohra was laughing so much she thought she might be sick. The boys looked like something out of a speeded-up comedy film.

Then Frédérique howled and grabbed hold of Froggie’s arm.

Froggie shrieked.

‘She’s caught me!’

Frédérique bared her teeth, brought Froggie’s arm up to her mouth and bit down hard.

‘Jack, Jack … I’m sorry, Jack.’

‘You moron. You could have killed me.’

‘But you’re not dead. Thank God. How bad is it?’

‘What do you think? You shot me, you moron.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought …’

‘Well, it
was
me …’

‘Jack, what have I done?’

‘You
know
what you’ve done. You’ve shot me.’

‘You’re not dead, though. I didn’t kill you.’

‘It only got me down the side. I’m bleeding a bit. It’s not too bad, I think. Doesn’t hurt too much. It’s lucky you’re such a rotten shot.’

‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’

‘It’s all right, Bam. It’s not your fault. I know you didn’t mean it, but I wish to God you hadn’t done it.’

‘I couldn’t see. I thought you were a sicko.’

‘Yeah, I know. I thought you were one too. There was a light, I saw a light, I think it must have been something reflecting off your gun barrel.’

‘Jesus, Jack, I really thought I’d killed you.’

‘Yeah, well, you didn’t. Better luck next time.’

‘Jack …’

‘I’m still here, Bam. Just shut up about it. We’ve got to get out of here somehow.’

‘Help!’ Bam’s voice boomed out in the darkness. ‘Hello! Help … Ed! Are you there? Help us, Ed! Where are you? Ed …’ Bam stopped shouting and the silence and the blackness felt deeper.

‘Can you see anything?’ Jack asked. ‘Any light anywhere?’

‘No, Jack, but I can feel you … You’re soaked. It’s bad, Jack, it’s bad.’

‘I feel all right, Bam. It doesn’t hurt too much. I can stand up, I think.’

‘Come on then. I’ll help you.’

‘Ow … don’t hold me there, that hurts like bugger. Ow. OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m up.’

‘Which way do we go? I can’t see anything.’

‘Oh, Jesus, Bam, I don’t think I can do this, put me down, put me down …’

Bam realized that Jack had been fronting it out before. The injury was bad and he was in a lot more pain than he’d been letting on. Tears came into Bam’s eyes. He wiped them away and stared into black nothingness. And then a strange thing happened: a patch of the black started to break up and fall apart, to be replaced by a bright square, that hung like a TV screen in the darkness.

He struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

Light. A waft of smoke and dust. Then a silhouetted head and shoulders. A voice.

‘Bam?’

‘Ed? Is that you, Ed?’

A torch shone in and Bam shielded his eyes.

‘I heard you shouting.’ It was definitely Ed’s voice. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere. Come this way. I’ll pass you a torch. Is Jack hurt?’

‘Just a bit,’ said Jack sarcastically.

‘In the explosion?’

‘No,’ said Bam, coming over to the small opening and taking the torch off Ed. ‘I shot him. I thought he was a sicko.’

Ed swore. ‘We’ve got to get you out of there fast,’ he said. ‘See if you can pull down any more of this wall of rubble.’

With Bam working from one side and Ed from the other they set to, moving lumps of concrete until they’d made a big enough hole for Bam to be able to get out. Then Ed shone his torch in to guide Bam back to Jack. Bam saw that they’d fallen into some sort of underground sports hall. Part of the roof was caved in and there was a mound of dead bodies at the far end.

He went back over to Jack and swore again when he saw the state of him. His whole left-hand side was covered in bright red blood crusted with dirt. His shirt and jacket were ragged. He groaned as Bam hauled him to his feet and manhandled him to the opening. Ed helped them both out into the corridor on the other side. There was smoke everywhere, and the sound of flames. The structure of the building had been badly damaged. Big cracks zigzagged up the walls, and chips of concrete and little rivulets of dust were falling everywhere.

Ed and Bam got under Jack’s shoulders and the three of them blundered their way to a staircase that led up to ground level. Jack cursing. Bam fretting. Ed just glad they were all alive.

‘I didn’t fall through,’ he explained as they made it out of the stand through some shattered glass doors. It was a relief to get out of the building, although the air outside wasn’t much cleaner. ‘The explosion threw me off the pitch into the stands,’ Ed went on. ‘I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I came round I figured you two must have got buried underground somewhere. I managed to get outside and find this torch in an ambulance. It’s crazy, the whole place is on fire, but at least it’s got rid of the sickos.’

‘It’s lucky you heard us shouting,’ said Bam.

‘Yeah, well, when I got back here I thought it was hopeless,’ said Ed. ‘I went down to the lower level and half the place was collapsed. Then I heard a shot. I couldn’t believe it. When you started shouting I finally worked out where you were.’

They were skirting the stands, making their way to the main gates where they’d first come in. There was a creak and a rumble from the building.

‘It’s collapsing,’ said Ed. ‘We need to get well away from here, then we’ll see how bad you are, Jack.’

‘I’m fine,’ Jack insisted. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘I hope so. Because it looks terrible.’

Swirls of black smoke carrying ashes and cinders billowed around the security vehicles and there was a sickening stink coming from the fire. Roasting flesh and blazing fat mixed with the bitter, choking stench of burning hair and bones, not to mention the smell of all the plastic and chemicals and building materials that were poisoning the atmosphere. Bam and Jack had lost their masks in the fall and Ed stopped just long enough to hand them fresh ones from his pack. Then they struggled on, half carrying, half dragging Jack between them. Ed had had to get rid of his rifle. It had been damaged in the explosion – the bayonet had snapped in half – and it was too awkward trying to carry it and Jack at the same time. Bam was limping badly. His legs were more badly hurt than he’d realized but at least he could walk. Jack grunted and complained as they jostled him along.

They headed to the main road and carried on south-east, towards Clapham. Behind them a vast column of smoke rose from the ruined Oval. Flames at the base of the column leapt and spurted skywards as if trying to escape. The roar was deafening and the surrounding buildings were already getting covered in a layer of soot and ash. The boys hadn’t gone far when they heard the first of the vehicles explode.

‘Looks like we got out just in time,’ said Ed, glancing back at the devastation. ‘We need to keep moving.’

They walked a long way before Ed reckoned it was safe to stop and they broke into an office building. They thought it would be easier to fix Jack up in here than out on the street. There were no signs of any sickos. It was clean and dry and quiet. A black leather and chrome sofa stood in the reception area. They sat Jack down on it and Ed took off his backpack.

Jack looked awful. His skin was almost bone white, making his birthmark stand out even more vividly. His torn clothes were soaked with blood.

‘We need to take a proper look at you,’ said Ed.

‘It’s only on the surface, I think,’ said Jack. ‘It must be, otherwise why isn’t it hurting more?’

‘Whatever. You’re still losing a lot of blood.’

Ed opened Jack’s coat and put his fingers to his shirt buttons, but Jack stopped him, pushing his hand away.

‘Don’t, Ed,’ he said. ‘Just leave it. I’d rather not know.’

‘If you don’t want to look, fine. But we’ve got to at least bandage you, Jack.’

Jack thought about it, biting his lip. ‘All right,’ he said, turning his head away.

Ed unbuttoned Jack’s shirt and peeled it back.

‘Oh, crap, Jack. That does
not
look good.’

Jack’s left-hand side was peppered with red marks that ran from his chest down to his trousers. Some were merely bloody dents, but some were actual holes.

‘There’s probably still shot in there,’ said Bam, looking at the nasty punctures that dribbled blood down Jack’s pale skin. ‘If we don’t get that out, you’ll get infected, mate.’

‘
Can
we get it out?’ Jack asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Bam shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know how deep it is. I’m not a doctor.’

‘Then I’m buggered, basically.’

‘We should get you back to the museum,’ said Bam. ‘Someone there might know what to do.’

‘No,’ said Jack angrily. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m going home? Look, what’s this?’

Jack’s hand clutched at something that was hanging round his neck on an old leather bootlace.

‘It’s a key,’ said Bam.

‘Exactly,’ said Jack. ‘My front-door key, to be precise. I’ve kept it with me from the start. Because I always knew that one day I was going to go home and let myself into my own front door. I don’t know why you two came along on this. All you’ve done is try and persuade me to go back. You’d do anything to stop me getting home, wouldn’t you? Even shoot me!’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I know it was a bloody accident, Bam. I was making a joke.’

‘Bam’s right, though,’ said Ed. ‘I got some stuff off the ambulance, but you’d be better off back at the museum.’

‘My house is nearer,’ said Jack bluntly. ‘And I don’t feel like I can go very far like this. Clean the wounds, bandage me up and get me home. Anything you haven’t got on you, I don’t know, tweezers, scalpels, whatever you need, we can probably find there. And then we’ll look at the damage properly. Deal?’

‘All right, yes. We’ll do that,’ said Ed, unpacking his medical supplies. ‘But you’re a stubborn bastard, Jack.’

‘Exactly. Too stubborn to die, that’s me! Iron Jack, the armour-plated man.’ He gave a little twisted smile, then closed his eyes before he started crying.