Sebastian set out at one in the morning, school bag secured over his shoulder, dressed in all black, hoodie casting a shadow over his face to disguise his blond hair, which might have proved memorable to witnesses. Jim had slipped him a pair of slightly too small leather gloves to avoid fingerprints, which he was now wearing, although they irritated his hands. Sebastian liked to be able to touch things and was a very tactile person. He got a kick out of touching railings and getting splinters in his hands from climbing trees and the odd burn of cold metal on warm palms. Still, Jim knew what he was on about, and Sebastian was accepting of any hints he was offered. This was clearly a test, but one Jim seemed to want him to pass.
In his favour; his height, his anonymity. Nobody would see him and think he was a thirteen year old boy. He could even have passed for sixteen like this. The people who lived close by took pains not to associate themselves with the 'mental' care home children, and so there was little to no chance of Sebastian being recognised.
Getting out of the window was easier than he'd expected. He found a foothold and using the drainpipe he began to climb down, landing lightly on the bins as planned, crouching on impact to prevent falling on his face. Any major noise would be guaranteed to make Verity come running, or Chloe, who was too fucking nosy for her own good and had a tendency to cause trouble.
Slipping easily through the back garden, he found the familiar gap in the fence, the place he and Jim used whenever they fancied a walk and weren't allowed. For such a large boy, it should have been a struggle to climb through, but Sebastian was very aware of his body, focused on controlling his limbs and filled with a sort of cold fire. Once he'd maneuvered himself through the wooden boards, he straightened up, fixed his posture, actively changing his stance to make himself appear older. Eyes on the ground he began the long walk to Stanley Benson's house. Long strides, slight sway to his step, shoulders hunched, like the people Jim declared were 'chavs' when he saw them out.
The rougher the neighbourhoods got, the faster Sebastian's heart hammered in his chest. He was impatient, wanting to get on with the task at hand. All this poncing around pissed him off. He knew he had to be clever, that he couldn't just beat the bloke to death and let him drown in his own blood. That would have been satisfying, but way too incriminating. Jim didn't want him to get caught, so there was no chance of ripping out his spine and shoving it up his arse. This had to be dealt with professionally. Sebastian was going to give it his best shot. As always.
Sebastian passed other dodgy-looking figures who didn't look up and meet his eyes. For all Seb knew they were off to do the same thing. He passed rowdy teenagers and houses where music blared and old people complained. He dodged dog shit smeared on the street, and needles which lay at the side of the road. A lone woman standing on a street corner put on a forced laugh and climbed into the back of a car with blacked-out plates and a broken tail light. Her tights were laddered and her shoes too high for her to walk in properly.
All of this might have combined to worry Sebastian under usual circumstances. He could probably be stabbed here and nobody would come to his aid. He could get bundled into a white van, attacked by drunks. But today this information soothed him. Because the closer he came to his target, the more clear it became that this was somewhere you could get away with almost anything. If he could get beaten half to death here and left bleeding out on the street without so much as a look from the people around, then logic dictated he could carry out his own mission without much resistance. It was obvious the police had given up on this area, like all authorities, Sebastian was learning, so often did. Any effort and the people in charge would just shut down, immovable, too lazy to put themselves out. At school Sebastian was taught that all people were born equal, but he knew that wasn't the truth. If you had money people cared, if you lived in a dump and had no parents to protect you, you were easy game. He was supposed to be easy game because he was going nowhere. Jim was supposed to be easy game because he was short and skinny and on his way to getting sectioned. Neither were expected to survive in society up to adulthood.
The real truth, Seb thought, the one nobody wanted you to find out, was that the world ran on imbalance. Keeping the rich in control, the poor powerless. People like Jim were forever going to get screwed over unless someone did something. Why were he and Jim worth less than anyone else because of the way they'd grown up? Why did nobody care when Jim tried to kill himself? Why did Seb get treated like some sort of animal?
As a child, Sebastian had believed in the good of humanity, but that was all crumbling away now, peeling off like layers of skin. When he looked a little closer, the world came into focus so fast it almost knocked him off his feet. He was going to die in the army and nobody would give a shit. Jim was going to kill himself and everyone would pretend they'd tried their best to help him, that they cared about him. The world would keep on turning. God wouldn't show his face. Not one person would even take the time of day to think about Jim Moriarty and his potential. Nobody would weep at either of their graves. There was no Heaven to drift off to, and even if there was there was no guarantee they'd be together. Heaven without Jim Moriarty was as bad as Hell.
And so Sebastian resolved to become iron on the inside. Replacing vulnerable skin with chainmail. Being good was for the privileged. The spoiled brats who society gave a damn about. No matter how far he and Jim pushed in their lives, no matter what they achieved, they'd always be no good. A pair of blokes draining resources. Better off in prison. In an institution. Tucked away where nobody would be forced to look directly at the ugly truth of their lives.
Nobody messed with Jim, no matter how old they were, how much money they had. Sebastian once believed in guardian angels, back when he was a kid. But that was all just a dream, another technique to manipulate people. Be good, you're being watched. Don't upset the big man or you might just burn for eternity. If there was such a thing as guardian angels, then Jim hadn't received his, and now he was paying for it. He was an innocent kid dealt a shitty hand. Messed up in the head because people wouldn't listen. Sebastian understood now why he so often screamed.
It was time to start playing dirty. No rules and no regrets.
The address was carved into the inside of Sebastian's brain, along with the description of Stanley's home. When Sebastian reached it he didn't hesitate. He assessed the surroundings, eyes scanning the property, looking for ways in. Breaking into a house was easy enough, especially after hearing all of Jim's stories. Sebastian spotted the open window on the upper floor and his lips curled. Simple. Bins to start with, flat ledge, dent in the brickwork which could work as a foothold, drainpipe, burglar alarm box (fake), kick the window open wide enough to climb through.
Aside from one sickening moment where Sebastian felt his gut lurch because the bricks moved slightly and he couldn't get a grip properly with his leather gloves, everything went to plan. He landed in the upstairs bathroom, careful not to make a sound. The room was dark and full of needles, grimy tiles, the bathtub scummy around the edges, toilet seat left up. Sebastian grimaced at the stink of the house, leaving the bathroom and heading into the hall.
Jim had warned of a potential dog, but Sebastian didn't believe there were two animals here. Just one. The house didn't smell like dogs, more like old food, of alcohol, smoke and filth.
The sign outside was most likely a warning, to make him seem intimidating and deter burglars. And if there was a dog then Sebastian would just have to get rid of it. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, because he wasn't here to hurt some ugly slobbering canine, but some things were necessary. Just like in war. Collateral damage, just like Jim said. Just the same as how politicians lied constantly on the news. Civilians got caught in the crossfire all the time, but the objective came first. Paradigm shift, Jim had whispered to Sebastian with a smirk, back when Seb had looked appalled at hearing about a load of soldiers abusing prisoners of war. They say it's for the greater good. Because the people in charge are allowed to define what good is. That's just life, Sebby…
Sebastian checked the entire upstairs floor. Nothing at all. Stanley wasn't asleep in the bedroom like Sebastian had hoped. Which meant he was most likely awake and downstairs, unless he was out. He doubted it though, because the lights were all on.
So Sebastian took a breath and made his way down the stairs, moving slowly in case of creaking floorboards, ignoring the trainers on the stairs, the cigarette butts half trodden into the stained carpet.
The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. Only one room left. The place where Jim had been taken. It had to be. There were five locks on the outside of the door, installed by the bloke himself by the looks of it, nailed into the door frame, large and ominous.
Sebastian reached into his bag and pulled out the craft knife stolen from the woodwork department at school. Clutching it in his gloved hand, his left today, he pushed the door open slowly to get a look inside.
Stanley Benson was asleep, it seemed. Sprawled out on a battered black sofa, dribble creeping its way down his stubbly chin. He was surrounded by bottles; vodka and whiskey, the same cheap stuff Sebastian had seen littered around the streets. Sebastian was suddenly struck by a memory, one he hadn't realised he'd been storing for nine years, tucked away in the back of his mind:
A man passed out from drinking, a dangerous animal in slumber. Sebastian just had to be nice and quiet and not disturb him otherwise there would be consequences, and he so wanted to be good. It was like a game and he was a soldier. He had to fetch his toy because he wanted it, but the man was so scary. Maybe if he crept along the floor? Mummy wouldn't be happy about it, she'd tell him off. But Sebastian was brave like his Father and maybe Father wouldn't mind anyway. Maybe he'd stop getting cross this time. Maybe, if Sebastian could prove himself, show how brave and strong he was, he and his Mummy wouldn't have to be so scared anymore…
Sebastian shook his head, forcing the feelings away. Now was not the time. It could wait.
Stanley was passed out, Sebastian could tell. Another memory popped into his head, common sense learned by experience, hidden away for convenience, to save the shame of his past helplessness, to save the honour of his beloved father. Passed out meant pathetic, it meant clumsy, it meant no memories. Passed out meant Sebastian wasn't going to have to put his boxing skills to use. It made things easy.
On the table, along with a set of syringes, Sebastian could see papers. There were a ton of porno magazines on the floor which Sebastian barely even spared a glance, but these papers were different. Printed on flimsy A4, creased like they'd been looked at too many times. Taking a step closer, eyes narrowed, Sebastian spotted an image that made him want to vomit.
Paedophile.
The kid in the picture wasn't Jim, but it may as well have been. Sebastian could see Jim in that same position inside his head, whimpering, tears streaming down his cheeks. Trying to fight. Would Jim have fought? It was impossible to tell. Maybe he'd have tried to talk his way out of it. There was no way he'd have stood a chance against the man in the room. He must have been so fucking scared. He probably thought he was going to die. Probably shut down. Probably bit down on his tongue to stop himself from screaming…
The knife wasn't necessary now. Bleeding out was too quick a death, and it would leave evidence behind. Seb would get blood on his clothes, have to come into close contact with the beast. His blue eyes passed over the cigarette butts on the floor, the alcohol everywhere, the odd lighting, the stacks of papers and porno magazines. He remembered those five locks on the door outside. Sturdy. In fact, there was probably no way to get out from the inside. He supposed under exceptional circumstances you could break it down, but while passed out? No. Even if he woke up he'd be under the influence. Could a man of his size shoulder open the door?
Sebastian thought fast, more memories flooding through his head. He and his mother had hidden once in the bathroom when his father was in a rage. There had only been two locks on that door and they were on the inside. His father had kicked his way in, but it had taken him a while, and even then the door didn't come right off its hinges, just broke and cracked. Sebastian remembered thinking that if only there had been more locks, if they'd been a bit bigger, it would have kept him out. He also remembered the scent of his mother and the way she had cried and attempted to shield him from the blows that rained down later on…
Seb picked up the stack of magazines from the table and laid them out all around, covering as much of the room as he could. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, the one he'd nicked from the newsagents because he was bored and fancied a challenge. Picking out three cigarettes from the packet ready and waiting on the table, Sebastian lit them one by one. The first he threw into the corner, where it began to flicker to life. The second he chucked at the main area of magazines, and they began to curl instantly. The third he lit and held in his hand for a moment. He took a drag, sniffed, and then with perfect aim lobbed it at Stanley and the sofa, where it fell between the cushions.
It happened very quickly after that. Sebastian spat on Stanley, locked the door, noticed, with a grim sort of thrill that the room was soundproofed, because once the door was closed the crackling couldn't be heard. There was no gap under that door, no way for a person to get leverage. There wasn't even light licking into the hall, although the fire would spread soon enough. The fire safety talk he'd been given at school said that a fire could engulf a medium-sized in thirty seconds if the conditions were right.
Seb darted back upstairs, ran for the bathroom, climbed out of the window, fearless with exhilaration as he jumped onto the grass with a small thump. No broken bones. No remorse. No sign of the fire yet.
In his head he imagined Stanley waking up, disorientated, surrounded by an odd smell, light everywhere. Then sudden, searing pain. Sebastian had burned himself with a lighter before and he knew that bite, that scent. Only this would be everywhere. Stanley would stumble towards the door, fumble for the locks, only to remember what he'd done. Because he'd brought it on himself, Stanley. He'd created his 'lair,' he'd made it so nobody could escape. He wanted a room in which to keep his child pornography, to trap the kids he lured in or paid for, he wanted the screams and the pleading muffled so the neighbours couldn't hear. So they couldn't rescue the victim. So they were trapped and terrified and facing intense pain.
Sebastian shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked through the streets, not looking back at the house to see the developments. He wanted to shout with adrenaline, he wanted to run. He wanted to punch the air. He wanted to take on a whole fucking army in Jim's name. This was power. The world might not give two shits about justice, but Sebastian did. All that morality jammed into his head was useless, utterly fucking meaningless. He let it drift away into the night, into the polluted London streets, unnecessary now. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
The only thing that mattered was Jim.