One Year
The flat is a tiny cell in a concrete square-mutated honeycomb, suspended high under a North London sky that's purple with thunder and nightmares. Dank November darkness is seeping into every corner through poorly isolated windows and rusty copper pipes. The tower-block is thrumming with dismal half-life. Flickering strip-lights in the hallway outside sees two men call the lift. It rattles up through the bones of the house, accompanied by distant cries of tyres and torrential rain. There is a deep gurgling in the diseased peristalsis of the plumbing. The stairwell reeks of piss and beer, but inside, in the threadbare womb under the covers of the narrow bed, Mello can only smell his own blood. He's been hurt before, but not like this. He's been hurt, but never killed. But right now, he's not sure. There is an awful lot of blood.
The pain is dull and pulsing. The heating has gone off again, due to non-payment of bills, and he can see his breath fleeing his mouth as small cloud. They took the whole year. One year to the day since he left Wammy's, and all it took was two men and one knife, and he's back to square one.
He'll tell anyone who'll listen that he hasn't cried since he was five (because it doesn't count if no-one sees, just like being a genius doesn't count if there's nobody to compare yourself to) but it's not true. Today, when the world is grey and the rain is falling forever, and all his plans are hollow, backfiring pipedreams, he can't keep it together anymore. Besides, he really thinks he might die.
He maintains that he has not been naïve. Rash, perhaps. Impulsive, definitely. But, the decision to leave Wammy's and go his own way was the right one. The only one. He knew that things would be tough. He is brilliant, but he is fifteen, and even though he has a wide range of top-class talents, he is still limited to working for the sort of people who will hire a fifteen-year-old. He has a dream, a burning ambition, but to get anywhere in the world, he needs money. And there was no legal way of getting it fast enough to be acceptable to his time-plan.
London seemed like the logical place to start. It was within hitch-hiking distance—something that could not be said for America, where he really wants to be—and it has its healthy share of crooks and shady businessmen. But few of them will listen to a skinny fifteen-year-old who is far too pretty for his own good. And since he left Wammy's prematurely, he was never set up with a workable fake identity. There are a lot of things he can't do. Open a bank-account, for one. The best he could do was a lock box under the bed. And now it's gone. An entire year of hard work and swallowed pride. Gone.
He knows from TV what fifteen ought to be like. School and friends and hobbies, dinner on the table at five PM. Not a relentless academic tug of war with Near, not giving his all for years only to be betrayed by the judge at the finishing line. The competition was only meant to have one winner. The suggestion that he'd share the gold medal with Near was a blatant violation of the rules. So if he can't trust them to run a fair competition, he will have to play by his own rules. Fairness is an empty word, a contrivance of man that does not exist in nature. So he's done whatever it takes, done what pays, and put the money in that box. He just about had enough. That's what makes it so devastating.
They must have followed him from Morrison's, that's all he can think. Nobody is supposed to know where he's staying. He's been so careful. The light in the single room is dim, but he can still see the dark patch where the blood is soaking through his jumper. He is queasy and light-headed and he thinks he will need stitches. He can't go to hospital. God knows they get enough stab-wounds in there to recognise his for what it is. Then the police will get involved, and that can't happen.
The pillow is cool and faintly damp against his cheek. The cover, unwashed as it is, soft on his naked shoulders. Maybe he can just close his eyes for a minute. Maybe then, this will all turn out to be a dream. For a while, his thoughts drift. Vague memories of some foreign town, greyer even than this; a hint of a face, a snatch of voices. He doesn't know where he's from, they never told him. He doesn't know who his parents were. Only those glimpses. He's running down a street; there is broken glass, a crushed window. A pale green weed growing through a crack in the pavement. A bird on a telephone wire. Then the dream dissolves into a liquid heat. His side is throbbing. His face is flushed, but he's shivering with cold. He opens his eyes to the peeling wallpaper and realisation hits; he won't get through this one on his own.
Reaching for the pre-paid, unregistered mobile phone is a day's work in itself. It's for emergencies only, but he thinks this qualifies. The room is doing odd bending and sliding tricks and his hand is trembling so badly that he nearly drops the phone. He can't call Wammy's; he'd rather die. But he can call someone from Wammy's. It is an emergency. Even so, the list is short. Those there who don't hate him will still grass him out to Roger. And even those who perhaps wouldn't (few, so few) wouldn't have any way of getting here. The train takes too long. He listens to the rain hammer down outside, a distant roar, and he is down to one name. He scrolls down the list to M and presses dial. He doesn't even know if anyone will answer. Finally, someone does.
Matt, sometimes rumoured third in the invalidated race to the L code. Matt, the shy, nerdy kid who caught him smoking out back and didn't tell, even though Mello called him a four-eyed freak. Matt, with whom he once shared a tentative friendship, as seasonal and fragile as the tiny blue flowers growing behind the chapel by the pond. He doesn't know Matt these days, but he knows that he was good with cars. Even at thirteen, Matt could take apart an engine and put it together again, and he could drive, if only on the back roads behind the estate. Also, Matt can keep his mouth shut, and that is really all he needs.
"Yeah?" A somewhat gruff voice on the other end.
"Matt? It's Mello."
A second of silence, then, "Mello? Queen bitch of Wammy's? To what do I owe the honour?"
He sounds amused but Mello will not rise to the bait. He knows he has been a terror in day's past. He lets it slide.
"I'm looking for a fast driver and I seem to recall you doing quite well in that field back in the day. How are you now, any good?"
Matt made a sound that could have been a laugh, and then said, "I'm the best."
"Is that right? Well, I would like to see what you can do. If you c..."
"Mello." It was almost a drawl, "I'm fifteen. I can't get a license. And even if I could, why would I want to work for you?"
Mello wants to say that he'll pay better than Matt can imagine. That he can guarantee that he'll find the work challenging. But right now, he can't say any of that because life has not turned out the way he had planned. He should have got further by now. He should have been a force to contend with, but it's like someone has poured syrup into the cogs of his life. Everything takes too long. He's fifteen and he feels old.
The phone feels like it's weighing twenty pounds, and he sinks back onto the pillow. It doesn't really hurt any more, just a slight discomfort. He's tired, but smart enough to know this is a bad sign.
"Matt," he says, "maybe I don't have that much to offer right now… but if you can pick up some disinfectant and some sterile compresses and get to London in under an hour… I will …"
He can't think of what he will (perhaps survive) and he feels like he's floating in water. He wants to curl up and be far, far away. There's no place like home. Actually, that's not right. There's no place that's home.
"What's the address?" some stranger's voice says in his ear. He thinks he tells him. He thinks he adds "get sutures". He thinks…
He's dragged to the surface by an insistent pounding. The real world is nothing but a small-scale diorama put on a high shelf, and the muted thumps could be his heart, but he forces his eyes open and will things to make sense.
He rang someone. Or maybe it's them. Morrison's men, coming to finish what they started. There's something wet and cold snaring him on the bed and a hollow echo in his head. He tears himself free and staggers to the door. Walking hurts, but the pain helps to clear his head.
The fisheye in door shows him a grimy, distorted picture of a young man (a boy, really) in a beige sleeveless coat and jeans. Odd goggles cover his eyes, and they trigger the memory. It's Matt. Mello rang him. He unlocks the door.
"58 minutes, 32 seconds," Matt says. "You can pay my speeding tickets if they track the car. Although I doubt that would be my biggest problem if Roger finds out..."
Then he apparently looks closer at Mello and the smug little smile drops.
"Whoa man, are you…?"
Mello waves him into his nest and pushes the door shut. He switches on the bedside lamp, shedding weak yellow light over the drab room. He grabs the plastic bag out of Matt's hand and upends the content onto the bed, then tries to pull his top over his head, but lifting his left arm proves too painful. He bunches the fabric in his armpit instead and surveys the damage. It's hard to see the wound for the blood. He reaches for the disinfectant (small bottle, bloody typical) and tries to clean it off, but the fabric of his jumper keeps falling down, and his fingers feel like they're on backwards.
"Need a hand?" Matt says.
Mello wants to say 'no', he doesn't need anyone or anything. He proved that by leaving. He nods, silently.
Matt digs out a small pair of scissors from the pile of medical equipment and Mello remembers the classes at Wammy's. They never called it field medicine, but really, that's what it was. He supposes they thought it might come in handy. Turns out they were right.
Mello sits down on the bed, on the twisted, blood soaked sheets, and Matt pulls on a pair of surgical gloves, cuts the fabric off Mello's (much too skinny) frame and squirts medical alcohol on the wound without any unnecessary platitudes about it stinging (which it does). Mello watches his every move. They appear calm, almost professional, but Mello knows that has to be a lie. And when Matt says 'You're right, that'll need stitches' he nods with the same fake calm.
"I've no anaesthetic," Matt says.
Mello shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't want to speak, in case Matt can hear how scared he is.
"I've never done it on a real person," Matt says.
"I don't have much choice!" Mello manages to sound both annoyed and impatient. He's quite proud of how it comes out.
Now it's Matt's turn to shrug his shoulders. He does as he's told. Mello likes that in a person. Mello pops a few painkillers, knowing he won't wait for them to start working.
Silence settles as Matt concentrates on his work and Mello concentrates on not making a sound. The rain falls like white noise outside their circle of light.
You'd think it was scripted, that they were actors in some mediocre criminal drama. Matt has just finished winding the bandage around Mello's midriff, holding the compress against the stitches in his side, when there is a crash of splintering wood. The door doesn't give to the very first hit, but Mello knows it won't withstand much. He doesn't know why they're back, but he knows without a doubt that it's them.
"What the fu…?" Matt starts, and then Mello's survival instinct kicks in. His veins spark with adrenaline and he's on his feet, pushing Matt towards the tiny bathroom to get him out of the way. The door comes crashing into the room and Mello throws himself against the wall next to the doorway. The scissors are in his hand. They're small, but they're all he has.
The two men from earlier step into the room. One has a gun. The other one surely still has the knife. He has a bright red mark on his cheek. Mello can see the scenario; Morrison throwing a fit when he found out they left Mello alive, slapping the guy and sending them both back to finish the job. Mello doesn't waste any time but hurtles forward and plunges the blades of the scissor in the gunman's jugular. Or, that's what he was aiming for, but the short scissor blades don't catch properly and slide down until finally getting lodged in the trapezius muscle. The man howls with pain and drops the gun. Mello dashes for it, but the second man has his wits about him and aims a kick for Mello's ribs. It connects and sends him rolling across the floor. Electric fear and rage jolts him back up in the same instant. His perception has turned into rapid snapshots, all emotions put on standby. It makes him feel like a passenger in his own head. The kitchenette counter is right behind him and the man with the knife and the vicious steel-toed boots is coming towards him. Mello reaches out and grabs a kitchen knife, not stopping or hesitating but bringing it around in a smooth arc. The guy's mouth opens to say something, something condescending like 'take it easy, kid' no doubt, but the knife's uninterrupted path takes it right across his stomach, slicing through shirt fabric, skin and flesh with the same ease. It's a good knife.
This man doesn't scream, just gasps with surprise and presses his hands against his stomach. The knife reaches Mello's arm's length and the signal has already left his brain. It's partly fear, partly rage—he didn't start this, they did—but mostly it's the cold knowledge that it's them or him. The other man has rallied and swept the gun off the floor and Mello pulls the knife back, point first, angling up. He is so very fast because he doesn't need to stop and think. He buries the knife in the man's neck, to the hilt, and the whole thing has only taken a few seconds. As the second man raises the gun, Mello ducks behind his dying partner, then shoves the bleeding, clawing man backwards. The gunman is hit by 200 pounds of meat struggling to cling to life, and is knocked off balance. For the second time tonight, the gun clatters to the floor. For the second time, Mello dives for it.
The blood is rushing in his ears, sounding like someone trying to unclog a sink. His side feels like a flame is licking it. A great weight slams into his back, knocks him to the floor. He can see the gun, resting against the foot of the bed, some six feet away. He digs his nails into the filthy carpet pile and claws his way forward. Above him is a swearing, snarling man twice his size, but that's no novelty. Blows rain down on him but he concentrates his focus, all of his immense willpower, like a laser beam on the gun. Above his head, he sees the man's arm, a thick, hairy slab of muscle, reach forward. He sees the tip of those stubby fingers touch the butt of the gun and wants to cry out in rage but can't spare the air in his lungs under that weight. Just as he expects to see the hand close around the would-be murder weapon, it yanks back several feet. The man swears loudly and Mello makes a final lunge forward to claim his prize.
As he spins around like a cat turning to land on its feet, he catches a glimpse of Matt, holding the man by the ankles, and then one of Mello's hands grab a pillow from the bed, the other aim the gun and then all he sees is the look in the man's eyes as he realises he is dead.
The pillow muffles the sound, but the sudden cessation of struggle leaves the room in a deafening silence. Small white feathers fall like first snow around Mello, sticking to the blood on his arms and face, settling in his hair. On a whim, he dives into the corpse's coat pocket and finds a treasure. The stupid fuck is still carrying the money. Mello's money, out of the lockbox. A whole year lost and gained in a day. He lets out a brittle laugh. He must be quite a sight, covered in gore and pillow down. Matt's eyes are wide behind blood splattered plastic, but he doesn't run to the toilet and puke. Mello makes another mental notch in his plus account.
Mello won't bother trying to dispose of the bodies. He'll clean himself up and have Matt drive him to a hotel. There's nothing in the flat he'll miss, his fingerprints are in no register. He knows he's going to crash hard when the adrenaline subsides, and tomorrow will be all pain, but he'll still go see Morrison's biggest rival. When they find out what he's done, they'll listen to him. They'll take him seriously, at long last. This will be his ticket out of here, a line finally crossed. And all it took was a little bit of bloodshed. Matt is staring at him, his face paper white, and he becomes aware that he's grinning in a way that must look more than a little insane.
"Well, thanks for your help, Matt," he says. "I think I can take it from here. When I get my operation up and running properly, if I find I could use a… partner, I might give you a call."
Outside, the rain is washing the night down the drains and a pale sun starting to sniff the horizon. And Matt looks around the bedsit-come-slaughterhouse and says, "And I might just answer the phone."