A/N: So so sorry – there was a massive slip-up in the last chapter regarding the dates and number of the bombings. I wrote three when there was really supposed to have been four. I couldn't have messed up in a worse place. For any of L's calculations to make sense, you'll have to read the fixed version. Or, you know, just take his word for it ;)
--
Chapter Two: The Child
"What is it?" I ask the silent figure again. Again, I receive no response. Behind me on the bank of monitors, life continues as normal in the form of maps and statistics. One camera shows a sky-view of Tokyo, its hundreds of millions of lights smeared out by the torrential rain. This is such a big city, such a big operation. He has come so far from those humble beginnings, that little room in that little town where it all started.
A streetlight by the gate illuminated the driveway up to Milesdown children's home. It was a large two-storey Victorian building with a left wing reaching back towards the road, parallel with a hedge separating the property from the road. The paved driveway was trimmed by neatly cut grass and no stray toys littered the immaculate lawn. It looked less like a children's home than some rich old family's house.
A look at my watch told me it was not late, only quarter past eight in the evening, and I hoped my visit would not come as too much of an inconvenience. Although the light behind the big bay windows was off, there were lights burning in some windows in on the ground floor of the left wing, and a few upstairs too, so I walked the path up to the door and rung the bell. A heavy chime sounded somewhere inside the big house and for some time the only sound was the rain smattering the vinyl of my umbrella. Then the door opened and a young woman with a grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders looked at me with polite inquiry.
"My name is Wammy," I said, "I am looking for a Mr. Smythe."
"Of course, come in. Awful night out, isn't it?"
I agreed that it was and stepped into the hall.
"I'll just go and see if he's available," the young woman said. She opened a door at the end of the hall and closed it behind her.
I turned to take in the room. It was large, chilly and dim, with dark oak panelling on the walls and a set of wooden stairs leading up to the first floor. The landing upstairs was bathing in a warm yellow light, and some of it spilled over the banister and down the stairs, but not enough to chase the darkness out of the large hall. The carpet on the floor was thin and worn, and a floorboard beneath creaked as I took a few steps into the room. A faint smell of wood polish and smoke hung in the air.
To my left was the door the woman had left through; straight ahead were the stairs. To my right, the hall extended a little way beyond the reach of the upstairs light and I could barely make out a door at the end. There was a table, a sofa and a few chairs by the bay window. The sofa was a big old Chesterfield, the leather worn from over a century's worth of use, and curled up in one corner was a small child, almost lost in the shadows. I started at the unexpected sight of a tiny white face staring at me only to look away the second I noticed it. Stepping closer, I saw a boy about seven or eight with the biggest, wildest head of black hair I had ever seen. The fringe fell in front of his eyes, and he peered out from behind it as if it was a barrier of some sort. His eyes were huge and dark, his gaze flitting around the room like a trapped bird. His little feet stuck out bare from the legs of a pair of patched trousers that looked much too big for him, and his jumper was like a collapsed tent around his small body.
"What are you doing, sitting here in the dark on you own?" I asked, to break the uncomfortable silence.
The child didn't answer, just stuck his thumb in his mouth and avoided eye-contact. I heard faraway laughs and running footsteps from the floor above but could not see anybody. When I looked back at the boy, he was staring intently at my face, again looking away the moment he was noticed. What an odd child. Perhaps he was just shy.
"Are you not cold, walking around barefoot?" I asked.
He shook his head, a tiny movement, without meeting my eyes. A moment of silence passed.
"Are you going to adopt someone, mister?" he said, suddenly. His voice was quiet but clear.
"Um... that's not why I'm here..."
There was something so pitiful about the lonely hunched little figure that I felt my heart ache.
"So why are you here?" he asked, still not looking at me.
"To meet with Mr. Smythe. You know, it's quite late, is it not past your bedtime?"
For a second I almost thought I could see a cryptic little smile ghost across his face, but it must have been my imagination. Behind me, the door opened and the young woman returned, accompanied by an older gentleman. He was tall and skinny, dressed in black slacks and a knitted cardigan with patches on the elbows.
"Mr Wammy, it's a pleasure to meet you." He shook my hand. "I'm Nicholas Smythe. Please, come through to my office."
Smythe led the way through the door, into a corridor and further into a small room lined with bookshelves where an open fire was burning. He invited me to sit down in a large leather armchair and he took a seat behind the desk, clasping his hands on the desktop. The young woman came in with a tray of tea and a plate of small biscuits. Smythe thanked her and poured the tea himself.
"So, Mr. Wammy," he said after we both had taken our cups, "what can I do for you?"
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the letter, handing it to him. He read through it, nodding slowly, and pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.
"Yes, this... well, basically as the letter says; if you are prepared to take on this commission, you will be asked to produce a device with certain wireless capabilities. You will also be required to sign a legal document to protect the other parties of this transaction, basically stating that you will not be able to discuss the circumstances of the commission with anybody but myself and L."
"Yes... who is this 'L' person?"
"I have agreed not to divulge that information unless you agree to these terms. L is a very careful... individual."
Mr. Smythe looked a little bothered, like he found the situation uncomfortable or even absurd, but he kept up the appearance of normalcy.
"I see. Well, I can't deny that I'm curious. Am I right in assuming this has something to do with the recent bombings?"
Smythe had been taking a sip of his tea, and he coughed and spluttered, putting the cup down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wammy, I really cannot say..."
That was all the answer I needed.
"I accept the terms," I said. "If this device is something I can build, I will do it."
"Excellent." Smythe opened a desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper covered in fine print. I scanned it, and found that it was indeed a legal document binding me to silence as regards to the invention and any interaction with Smythe or the unnamed individual designated as 'L'. There was nothing much to do except sign it.
"Now then, here are the specifics of the device," Smythe handed over a brown envelope. "If you would look them over and get back to me tomorrow, that would be very helpful."
"I don't get to meet this 'L' and talk to him?"
Smythe gave me a somewhat embarrassed smile, "Not unless you feel confident that you can accomplish the task of building the device. I am sorry Mr. Wammy, I have promised to indulge him in this. I do have reason to believe that he can actually solve this... case. He really does have quite a brilliant mind."
"I see."
I did see, but I was also quite disappointed. The mystery of L was far more intriguing to me at this point than the bombings—if I was right in assuming that was the 'case'—but I would clearly have to wait to satisfy my curiosity. For tonight, I would have to be content with finding out exactly what it was he wanted me to build.
I didn't get much sleep that night. The brown envelope proved to contain a real challenge. The requirements were for a device that would scan the area around it for as large a radius as possible, pick up any wireless devices and interrupt their signals long enough to analyse their destinations. It also had to contain the option of permanently blocking any tracked signal. So, L must be positive that the explosions had been set off by remote control. Although there had been no mention of payment, I was sure that L was aware that the development of such a device would not be cheap. To me, the money was secondary, if even that. I was not doing this for the money. I was not even doing it for the possibility of saving human lives—not only. I was doing it for the mystery. I was doing it for L—whoever he was.
I woke up the following morning slumped over my workbench. Blueprints and calculations littered the desktop and when I sat up, my back stiff and sore, I found a paperclip stuck to my forehead.
I stood and stretched. I was getting much too old for this. At least I could confirm that I had made some headway. There was a list of components I would need to send away for, but I had a somewhat solid outline of the project. Something I could show Smythe, and perhaps L would decide that I had shown enough commitment and agree to speak to me in person.
It was the 28th of October, and a glorious autumn day with a blazing sun and crips cold air. The trees outside my window were a firework of reds, oranges and yellows, and even though I had got less than four hours of sleep and not even eaten breakfast yet, I could feel a distinct spring in my step as I walked over to the Milesdown Children's home with my briefcase full of technical drawings.
Mr. Smythe looked over the blueprints and my shopping list with a blank face. It clearly meant nothing to him, and I think it was more the excitement on my face that made him decide that I was not trying to bluff him. He lifted the receiver from the metal cradle of the old-style telephone on his desk and spun the disc to dial a single number. After a few seconds, he handed me the receiver without a word.
"Mr. Wammy?" The voice on the other end was warbled and tinny, like someone had played the age-old prank of putting a piece of tinfoil in the receiver. "This is L."
"So I gathered."
Well, what was I to say? I knew absolutely nothing about this man, and he refused to meet me face to face.
"I apologise for the security measures, but they are as much for your sake as mine. There is a very dangerous criminal behind these bombings, one with apparently no regard for human lives. So, am I to understand that you have agreed to work with me on this?"
At last, admittance that this was indeed about the Mad Bomber.
"Yes." I said. "I have signed your guarantee. Can you tell me anything about what I'm doing here?"
"Of course. You are probably aware of the four previous attacks. The 26th of May last year, the 14th of January, the 7th of June and the 4th of September. Do those dates tell you anything?"
What was this, a test? Had I not come highly recommended? Had he not already decided that he wanted to work with me?
"Yes, the attacks seem to be accelerating," I said.
"Yes, very good." I could almost hear the smile on his voice, distorted though it was. "They are not only accelerating, but accelerating through a predictable pattern. Following this pattern tells me that the next attack will take place tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing where it will happen. The police have been informed, but needless to say there is not much they can do without a location."
"Are you serious? You're telling me that you can work out when it's going to happen again? How?"
"I don't have the time to explain the maths to you, Mr. Wammy. They are quite simple, please work it out for yourself. Regardless of whether I'm right or wrong, I would like to speak to you again tomorrow. Until then, please take care."
"But... what... am I supposed to..." I began, but realised that the phone had already been hung up on the other end.
This L was not only clever enough to work out the date of the next attack, but he was quite assuming as to my own abilities. Mr Smythe smiled somewhat apologetically it seemed, and followed me to the door. Outside, the sun was still dazzling and the sky so deep and pure blue that it hurt my eyes. The fifth attack would take place tomorrow, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. With quite the inner turmoil clouding my thoughts, I walked back to my workshop.
I had almost reached my door when a black car with equally black windows pulled up alongside me and stopped. The backseat passenger window was cracked open a fraction and I could see a man wearing a hat and dark sunglasses peer out at me.
"Mr Wammy," he said, we need to talk.
This couldn't be L, could it? I really did not know what to think, but my curiosity drew me closer to the car.
"We know," the man said, "that you're working on the case of the bombings. We need to obtain any information you have on it."
"What?" I stepped back from that impassive face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh come now, Mr. Wammy. We know all about the letter you received. In fact, we followed you here from the orphanage. We know you spoke to someone there, someone other than Smythe. Who was it, and what did they tell you?"
The window unrolled further and to my surprise I became aware that I had a gun pointed at me. It was fitted with a silencer, but would no doubt be quite enough to kill me at this distance.
"I didn't speak to anyone other than Smythe," I said. "And I only spoke to him to let him know that I was not prepared to take on any pro-bono cases. If you've read my mail, I'm sure you know there was no mention of money."
It might have been a terrible and unconvincing lie, but at least it would buy me some time.
"Well, if that is the case, I can tell you that we are certainly prepared to pay you for any information you might have. And very generously at that. This 'L', who is he?"
"I really have no idea."
That at least was the truth. After a fashion.
"When will the killer strike again?"
"Why are you asking me, how would I know? Is there one killer, I thought there were several suicide cases? An organisation, not a single individual. I really think you know more about this case than I do, or care to do."
The gun was still pointed at me. I still could see very little of the man's face.
"So you have no information about the bombings? Locations? Times? Dates? We could make you a very rich man, Mr. Wammy."
I was already rich. And even though L would not trust me enough to reveal his face, I was not going to betray what he had told me in confidence to someone else who was similarly hiding their face. This was getting annoying. Who did they think I was, some old grandfather who would blanche at the sight of a gun? I had fought in the war, I was a trained sniper, and I had some basic education in how to resist interrogation. These amateurs, threatening me in the open, in a public location; they clearly had no idea who they were dealing with.
"You know, I think the security cameras along the street have had ample time to register your licence plate," I said, "I think you had better move along before I call the police."
The man with the sunglasses shook his head and lowered the gun. "Mr. Wammy, we are on your side. Our cooperation would prove highly profitable for us both. Any little piece of information would be valuable to us, no matter how insignificant. Last chance, Mr. Wammy."
"I have nothing to say."
The window rolled back up and the car continued down the street. As it passed me, I saw that my line about the number plates had been quite laughable; they were completely blank.
The following day, I returned to the Milesdown Children's home at noon. No attack had been reported as of yet, but of course there was still much left of the day. Besides, L had said 'whether I'm right or wrong' and mentioned no specific time. I had spent a good deal of the previous night thinking about the sequence of dates that had led L to the conclusion that the next attack would take place today, but unfortunately the lack of sleep from the night before had taken its toll and I had fallen asleep before I could reach anything more than a half-formed idea.
Back in Smythe's office, the man seemed pleased for no apparent reason.
"Mr. Wammy," he said, "I have discussed the situation with L and... he would like to meet with you. Please follow me."
My heart beat a little faster. I really had no idea what to expect from this L. Smythe had told me he had a brilliant mind, and I had formed some sort of tentative image of him in my mind. A thirty-forty-something man with a dapper suit and a stern face. Some sort of James Bond type, with more brains and less swagger. He clearly had insight into the mad bombings case that the police had not released to the public, and apparently clearance to involve outside contractors such as myself. The specifics of the device I was to invent also told me that this was a matter of high importance—perhaps even on the level of national security.
I followed Smythe along narrow corridors and up creaking stairs. Eventually we reached a plain wooden door, one of many similar in a long hallway. Smythe nodded.
"Go on in, he's expecting you."
He didn't wait, but walked off down the hall as I knocked twice out of politeness and tried the handle. The door was unlocked and opened on a small room with a single bed and a small desk by a window. And on the floor, crouching with his knees pulled up to his chin and scribbling frenetically on a sheet of paper was the young boy I had seen in the hall yesterday. He looked up at me through the strands of hair hanging across his face and gave me the tiniest, shyest of smiles.
"Mr. Wammy. Nice to finally meet you. I'm L."
--
Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic.
