iBoy

1001

I slept for precisely forty-one minutes and two seconds that night (or rather that morning), and it would have been really nice to stay in bed the next day and not do anything. But I was too tired to sleep by then. And, besides, I knew that if I stayed in bed, all I'd do was carry on thinking about things, and I'd just about had enough of thinking for now.

I needed to do something.

I went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and then — standing naked in front of the mirror — I switched on my iSkin and watched as my whole body began glow­ing and shifting. It was an amazing sensation. The outline of my body — the defining shape of it — became blurred and indistinct, merging into the background, like some kind of weird super/cyber-chameleon, and when I moved, the movements left fleeting trails in the air, making everything seem even blurrier. I stood there for a minute or two, sta­ring at myself, and then — when I couldn't bear the weirdness any more — I switched it all off and got into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, as I was rummaging around in the sitting room, looking for my shoes and my bag and stuff, Gram shuffled in, still wearing her dressing gown and slippers. From the bags under her eyes and the way that she couldn't stop yawning, I guessed that she hadn't slept much either.

"Morning, Tommy," she mumbled, stifling another yawn. "What time is it?"

"About eight," I told her. "Have you seen my bag any­where?"

"What bag?" She rubbed her eyes and looked at me. "What are you doing?"

"My school bag," I said. "I can't find it anywhere."

"School?" she said, starting to wake up now. "What are you talking about? You're not going to school."

"Why not?"

"Oh, come on, Tommy ... you've only just got back from hospital, for God's sake. You were in a coma for seventeen days, and you had major surgery. Or have you forgotten all that?"

I smiled at her. "Forgotten all what?"

She shook her head. "It's not funny ... you need to rest. The only reason Mr Kirby let you come home was because I promised him that I'd make sure you got plenty of rest." She looked at me. "You've got to take it easy for a while, love."

"Yeah ... but I'm fine, Gram. Really —"

"I know you are. And I mean to make sure that you stay that way."

"But I was only going to school to pick up some text­books and stuff," I said. "I wasn't going to stay there all day or anything."

"Well... even so," she said, hesitating slightly. "I really don't think you should be out and about yet."

It was only a slight hesitation, but it was enough to let me know that I was on the right track.

"I'll only be about half an hour," I told her. "I promise. Ten minutes there, ten minutes to get the books, ten minutes back."

Gram shook her head. "I don't know, Tommy ... why do you need the books anyway? I mean, how come you're so keen on learning all of a sudden?"

"Maybe it was the brain surgery," I said, smiling at her. "Maybe it's turned me into a budding genius."

A faint smile flickered on her face. "It'd take more than major brain surgery to turn you into a genius." I pulled an idiot face. She laughed.

I said, "So, can I go then? I promise I won't be long." She shook her head again, and sighed. "You exploit my better nature, Tom Harvey. You know that, don't you?"

"Who me?"

"You're evil, you are."

"Thanks, Gram," I said.

She sighed again. "Your bag's in the kitchen."

When I got out of the lift on the ground floor, the post­man was just coming in through the main doors. I held the lift doors open for him.

"Thanks, mate," he said, getting into the lift. He looked at me. "Harvey, isn't it?"

"Yeah ..."

He rummaged through his bag and passed me a couple of letters. "Here you go."

I looked at the envelopes. They were addressed to Gram — Ms Connie Harvey.

"They're not for me," I started to say, passing them back to the postman. "They're for my —" But the lift doors were already closing. "Cheers, mate," the postman said.

It's only a ten-minute walk to school, but it was cold and rainy that morning, with an icy wind blowing around the streets, so I headed for the bus stop opposite the tower and hoped that I wouldn't have to wait too long. And I was lucky. A bus was pulling up just as I got there. I got on, showed the driver my pass, and shuffled up to the back.

The bus moved off.

It was 08:58:11 now, a bit late for going to school, so the bus was pretty empty, and I had the back seat all to myself.

I looked at the two letters the postman had given me.

If, like Gram and me, you don't have much money, and you're used to getting bills and final reminders, you soon get to know what they look like. And I knew straight away that both of these letters were final demands.

I opened them up. It was no big deal, privacy-wise. I mean, I don't open any of Gram's personal letters, but she's perfectly OK with me opening anything else that's addressed to her. As she often says, most of it's just rubbish anyway. But these letters weren't rubbish. And they weren't final demands either — they were final final demands. One of them was from the council, informing Gram that she was three months behind on the rent; the other was a summons to appear at the Magistrates' Court to explain why she hadn't paid her council tax.

The bus juddered to a stop. We were stuck in traffic, and we'd only moved about twenty metres from the bus stop. The traffic was jammed up all the way along Crow Lane, and I knew it would have been a lot quicker to get off and walk, but it was cold and wet out there, and warm in here ... and it didn't matter if I was late for school anyway. No one was expecting me.

I looked through the window for a moment, gazing out at the industrial wasteground that stretches between Crow Lane and the High Street. It was the same as ever: acres of cracked concrete, piles of gravel, the burnt-out carcasses of stolen cars and abandoned skips ...

A dull grey desert under a dull grey sky.

The bus got moving again, and I closed my eyes and thought about Gram's money problems, letting my iBrain do its stuff.

Gram didn't have an online bank account, but that didn't matter. My digitized neurons just hacked into her bank and accessed her account details, and I quickly found out that she was £6,432.77 overdrawn, her cash card had been cancelled, and that she was no longer allowed to write cheques for anything. I wondered how she'd been managing for the last few months. Credit cards, maybe? I hacked into her various credit card accounts and — yes — they were all maxed out. I checked the statements, which confirmed that all she'd been using the credit cards for was day-to-day living — cash withdrawals, food shop­ping, stuff like that — and when I went back to check her bank account again, I realized that the reason she was overdrawn was not that she'd been spending too much, she'd simply not been getting enough money in. She just wasn't earning enough for us to live on.

It was a big surprise to me. I mean, Gram had never earned tons of money or anything, and we'd always had to struggle to make ends meet, but we'd always just about managed. Now though ... well, this looked pretty serious.

The bus suddenly jerked and shuddered, and I opened my eyes and realized that we'd just pulled up at the school bus stop. I saved all the information about Gram's finances, made a mental note to sort it out later, then shut myself down, grabbed my bag, and got off the bus.

Crow Lane Secondary is a huge sprawling grey place that's always looked as if it's only half finished. Bits of it are forever being refurbished, or torn down, or renovated, and there are so many Portakabins piled up all over the place that it feels like you're going to school at a building site.

Instead of going in through the main entrance, I headed down a side street and went in through one of the workmen's gates. This led me round the back of the main building towards the old sports hall, which wasn't used any more ... well, not for sports, anyway. It was supposed to have been demolished years ago, but for some reason they've never got round to it, and for as long as I can remember it's been one of those places where the bad kids hang out, the kids who don't want anyone to know where they are or what they're doing, the kids who don't want to go to school but can't afford to be caught on the streets.

Kids like Davey Carr.

Davey was what they call a persistent truant, and he'd been caught so many times that his mum was in danger of facing prosecution and a possible jail sentence. And, obviously, Davey's mum didn't want to go to jail, which was why — a couple of months ago — she'd given him her version of a final warning, which basically consisted of heating the shit out of him. After that, Davey would go to school every morning, turn up for registration, and spend most of the rest of the day hanging around in places he wasn't supposed to be. Like the old sports hall.

And Davey, of course, was the only reason I was going to school that morning. I had no intention of bringing home any text books. What did I need with text books? I knew everything there was to know. I could probably pass every exam in the world, at world-record speed ... with my eyes closed. I could win University Challenge on my own. I could, if I wanted to, win every quiz show on TV — Countdown, Mastermind, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? I could win them all...

But for now, all I wanted to do was find Davey Carr.

It wasn't difficult. My iSenses had been tracking his mobile all morning, and the signal now was telling me that he was in a little room at the back of the old sports hall. And that's where I found him. He was sitting on an old wooden chair, smoking a cigarette, yapping away to a couple of young Crow kids. The kids, who were hang­ing on his every word, clearly thought that Davey was some kind of god or something.

"Hey, Davey," I said, walking into the room. "How's it going?"

The two young kids jumped at the sound of my voice, and even Davey looked a little bit startled for a moment, but he soon relaxed when he realized that it was only me.

"All right, Tom?" he said casually. "What are you doing here? I thought —"

"You can go," I said to the two kids.

They both stared at me, and although they were only about twelve years old, their eyes were already cold and hard.

"Go on," I told them. "Fuck off."

They glanced at Davey, he nodded, and they reluctantly sauntered out. I watched them go, studying them closely, comparing them to my iMemories of the young kids in the video of Lucy's attack, but I was pretty sure that these two kids hadn't been there. I waited until they'd left the room ... then waited some more. They both had their mobiles on, and I could tell from the signals that they hadn't gone anywhere — they'd stopped outside the room and were waiting to hear what happened.

"Listen, Tom —" Davey started to say.

"Tell them to go," I said.

"What?"

"The two kids, they're still out there. Tell them to go."

Davey looked puzzled for a moment, trying to work out how I knew, then he just shrugged and called out, "Hey! You two ... fuck off. Now!"

I heard muffled whispers, then shuffling feet. . . then, from beyond the room, "Sorry, Davey ... we was just... we was just going, OK?"

And, with that, they were gone.

I turned to Davey. "Fresh blood?"

"What?"

I shook my head. "Nothing ... don't worry about it." I stared at him. "How's your conscience, Davey?"

"My what?"

"Conscience." I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "It means the consciousness of the moral quality of your own conduct or intentions, together with a feeling of obligation to refrain from doing wrong."

Davey frowned at me. "What the fuck —?"

"I know you were there, Davey," I sighed. "And I know you threw the iPhone out of the window."

His frown deepened. "What are you talking about?"

"I've seen the video."

"What video?"

Sighing again, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mobile. As I selected the video player, I retrieved the video from inside my head and sent it to my mobile, and by the time I'd opened the player, the video was already there. Without saying anything, I hit play and passed the phone to Davey. He took it, watched it for a while, and then — with his face visibly paling — he passed it back.

"Remember it now?" I asked him, deleting the video and putting the phone back in my pocket.

He nodded sheepishly. "Where did you get it from? The video, I mean ..."

"Does it matter?"

"No ... I suppose not."

I looked at him. "Christ, Davey, how could you? I mean, Jesus ... how could you do that?"

"I didn't do anything," he whined.

"You were there! You watched them doing it... you were laughing, for God's sake. You think that's not doing anything?"

"Yeah, I know ... I just meant —"

"I know what you meant." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to control my anger. Davey lit a cigarette. I sighed again. "You used to be all right, Davey. I mean, you used to have a mind of your own. What the hell happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"Did you think it was funny, what they were doing to Lucy? Did you think it was a really good laugh?"

"No."

"So what did you think it was then? Did you think it was cool? Tough? Did it make you feel good?"

Davey's eyes darkened. "You don't know ..."

"What? I don't know what?"

He shook his head. "It's just the way it is, OK?"

"No," I said, "it's not OK."

"Yeah, well ..."

I looked at him, trying to see the old Davey, the Davey who used to be my friend. "Why didn't you try to stop them?" I asked quietly. "Why didn't you at least try ...?"

"Don't be stupid," he said. "They would have beaten me up, wouldn't they? Same as they beat up Ben ... worse, probably. When they tell you to do something, you fucking do it."

"They told you to be there?"

He shrugged. "I was with them, wasn't I? You're either with them or you're not. You don't get to pick and choose." He puffed on his cigarette and looked at me. "It's a differ­ent world, Tom. Once you're part of it, there's nothing else. You've just got to live it." He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have thrown the phone at you."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You what?"

"I never thought it'd actually hit you."

"I don't care about the fucking phone!" I spat. "Shit..."

He looked at me, grinning. "You've got to admit, though — it was a pretty good shot."

I was very close to hitting him then. I really wanted to smack him in the head and wipe that stupid look from his face. Not because he was grinning, not even because he'd momentarily lulled me into almost feeling sorry for him ... but simply because of his complete lack of remorse for what had been done to Lucy. I mean, how could he even think about apologizing to me without feeling sorry for Lucy?

It was totally unbelievable.

And I knew then that it was a waste of time trying to reason with him, or trying to appeal to his better side, because he didn't have a better side any more. I just had to treat him as nothing. I had to ignore my disgust, bury my anger, and just use him to get what I wanted.

I looked at him, letting him see the coldness in my eyes. "Whose idea was it?"

"What?"

"To beat up Ben — who was behind it?"

He shook his head. "I'm not telling you anything. I can't —"

"OK," I said, taking my mobile out of my pocket. "I'm going to ask you again, and if I don't get the answer I want, I'm sending the video to the police. And to your mum. And then I'm going to start shooting my mouth off, and pretty soon everyone's going to know that you've been talking to me, and that I've been talking to the police —"

"You wouldn't —"

I pressed a few buttons, pretending to select the video, then I keyed in a number (it was actually my own number), and said to him, "Last chance. Whose idea was it?"

"I can't —"

"All right," I shrugged, turning my attention to the phone. I moved my thumb, as if I was about to hit the send button.

"No!" Davey shouted. "No ... don't, please ..."

I paused, without moving my thumb, and looked at him. "Whose idea?"

"Look," he sighed. "It doesn't work like that, OK?"

I moved my thumb again.

"It's the truth, Tom," he said quickly. "Honestly ... it's just ... I mean, it's not like there's anyone in charge or anything. It's not like that." He shook his head. "All this stuff you see on TV about gangs, fucking Ross Kemp, you know ... it's all a load of shit. It's just not like that. There aren't any leaders or rules or anything ... it's just a bunch of kids, hanging around. We just do stuff, you know?"

"All right," I said. "But one of you must have decided to beat up Ben. I mean, there must be some kind of hier­archy."

"Higher what?"

"You know what I mean. Like with you and the two kids earlier on — they're Crows, aren't they?"

"Little Crows, yeah."

"And they do what you tell them?"

"Yeah."

"And there must be other Crows who tell you what to do, and you do it."

"Well, yeah ... I suppose."

"Right. So who was it? I mean, you said just now that "if they tell you to do something, you fucking do it". So who told you and the rest of them to beat up Ben?"

Davey hesitated, scared to name names.

I looked at him. "Was it O'Neil? Firman? Adebajo?"

He said nothing.

"I've got the video, Davey," I reminded him.

"Shit," he sighed, shaking his head. "If they find out I talked to you ... I'm fucked."

"Yeah, well," I told him. "At least there's a chance that they won't find out. But if you don't talk to me, you're definitely fucked."

He thought about that for a moment, then sighed again, and reluctantly started talking. "It's Yoyo and Cutz mostly, they're the ones who kind of ... I don't know ... get stuff going."

"That's O'Neil and Adebajo?"

"Yeah ... they've both got older brothers, like Elders, you know ...?"

"Elders?"

"The older kids," he explained. "The big guys ... you know? The buyers ..."

"Buyers?"

"Yeah."

"You mean they're drug dealers?"

Davey shrugged. "Kind of... I mean, the younger kids do most of the actual street dealing. The Elders don't go near it. I mean, they never even see the gear. They just take care of the business side, you know ... the money stuff."

"Right. So what's all that got to do with O'Neil and Adebajo beating up Ben and raping Lucy?"

Davey shrugged again. "Nothing, really ... I mean, it's just all about respect and stuff. Power. You know ...?"

"No," I said coldly. "I don't know."

"You can't show any weakness, all right? If you want to be something, be respected, you can't take any shit." He looked at me. "It's simple, really. Ben got beaten up because he said no to Yoyo. Yoyo told him he had to stab this guy, and Ben refused. If Yoyo hadn't beaten him up, Yo would have looked weak. And everyone would have known it, and that would have blown Yo's chance to be like his brother."

"And what about Lucy?" I said quietly. "What was the simple reasoning behind ruining her life?"

Davey lowered his eyes. "It's just. . . it's what they do, Tom. I don't know ... I suppose part of it was to get at Ben, to hurt him, you know? But mostly ... well, it's like a power thing. They do it because they can ... because they know they'll get away with it." He shrugged again. "It's just what they do."

"And what about you?" I said coldly. "Did you want to do it too?"

He looked at me. "I tried to help her ... afterwards, I mean. I helped her pick up her clothes ..."

"You helped her pick up her clothes?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that was incredibly thoughtful of you, Davey. I'm sure Lucy really appreciated it. Did she remember to thank you before you left?"

"Fuck off, Tom," he said quietly. "You weren't there. You don't know how it was."

I didn't say anything for a moment or two. I was sick of talking to Davey now. Sick of all this stuff about power and respect and weakness and shit. It was nothing to do with anything.

I breathed in, trying to forget how I felt, and I said to Davey, "What are their names? The brothers ...?"

"What?"

"O'Neil and Adebajo. What are their brothers called?"

"Why do you want to know?"

I just stared at him.

He hesitated for a few moments, instinctively wary of telling me, but almost immediately he realized that it was too late for keeping his mouth shut now. "Troy O'Neil and Jermaine Adebajo," he said.

"Right. And who do they answer to?"

"What?"

"The brothers and the rest of them. The older guys ... the Elders or whatever you call them. Who tells them what to do?"

Davey's face suddenly paled. "No ..." he muttered. "I mean, I don't know ..."

"Just tell me," I sighed. "One more name, and then I'm gone."

"No, I can't... not him."

"Who?"

"He'll find out. He always does."

I held out my mobile again. "It's up to you, Davey. Give me the name, or I send the video."

He was looking really worried now — blinking his eyes, nervously licking his lips — and I could tell that he was genuinely considering his options. Which made me think that whoever this guy was, the one that Davey was so frightened of, he had to be seriously scary.

Eventually, though, Davey looked me in the eye and said, "Some people call him the Devil."

"Yeah? Why's that? Has he got horns or something?"

Davey shook his head. "It's not funny ... I mean, this is a really bad guy. Yoyo and the rest are nothing compared to him. I mean, if you think what happened to Lucy and Ben was bad —"

"Davey," I said wearily, "just tell me his fucking name."

"Ellman," he said quietly. "His name's Howard Ellman."