Page 53 of Compulsion

Seve mouthed, “What is it?”

There was a sudden rattle from the kitchen, as if someone had knocked over a crockery mug on the counter.

“Stay here!” I couldn’t get enough urgency into a whisper without alerting the intruder. “Call 999. There’s someone else in the flat.” From the hopeless way Seve cast his eyes around the room, I realized he didn’t have a phone or a mobile nearby. And where was my mobile? On the table beside the empty water bottle and the other contents of my jeans pocket, in the living room where we’d sat and made out earlier tonight. I’d never been to Boy Scouts, but I should have been better prepared for any trouble.

Go and take a look, Max. I moved as quietly as possible to the bedroom door and peered into the hallway. The lights were off, and it took me a moment to get my bearings in the dark. There was no sight or sound of movement from the kitchen, but the door was wide open. I was sure we’d closed it behind us on our way to the bathroom and bed. A dim light from inside the room lit the doorway. It was probably from the streetlights outside, filtering through the kitchen blind. I took a few more steps down the hall.

An alien aroma seeped into my nostrils—not the remnants of whatever Seve had eaten for supper or the scent of soap and water from the shower. This was much less appetizing. It made me gag, like the fetid smell of rotting vegetables or very stale body odor. Or maybe both laced together. I was alarmed by the instinctive memories it conjured up: the smells of damp pavement, metal, and blood—the gut-churning feelings of misery and pain. I inched myself around the kitchen door frame, starting to sneak into the room.

There was a sudden draft of cold air and the door slammed into me, knocking me off-balance and forward into the room. I saw a shadow moving in front of the cupboards, a glint of metal. I knew I had to get away, but my shoulder was throbbing again, and everything I did seemed to be in slow motion. While I was still processing the shock, small strong hands shoved me against the wall, and I found myself trapped there, recoiling from a ten-inch open blade at my throat.

Staring into the mad dilated eyes of a kid I knew only too well.

Chapter Twenty-One

I STOOD totally still. My heart was beating fiercely and I could feel my legs start to shake. When I swallowed reflexively, the edge of the blade nicked my earlobe. A small trail of warm blood ran down my neck, tickling my skin.

My captor stared up at me. I’d always been half a foot taller than him.

“Baz,” I whispered. I couldn’t get anything stronger out of my mouth at that moment. “Baz, don’t do this.”

“Max?” Baz’s squeaky voice was familiar but also new: a strange, reedy twist of its natural state. Drugs, I reckoned. Some bastard had tweaked him up to the eyeballs. His pupils looked way too large and there was sweat on his top lip, but his hand was steady. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad luck for me. I’d never known Baz’s age, and everyone called him a kid because he was short and skinny, but the sly look in his eyes tonight suggested he was older than I’d thought and with far more experience than an ordinary youth would ever have. His face was grubby and he wore dark clothes, including pull-on black boots. No belt, no laces. When I’d known him, we barely trusted him out on his own—it looked like that was still the case. He stank of sweat and the cloying damp-leaf smell of weed. His hair stuck up on one side of his head like he’d slept awkwardly on it, and there was a motley selection of bruises and scars on the forearm pressed against my scapula. I remembered how I’d punched him when he killed Stewart. I wished—for the millionth time in my life—that I’d done a hell of a lot more damage.

“Yeah, Baz. It’s me. Look… can you take this fucking knife away? Way too sharp for shaving, right?”

He didn’t laugh or move. Me and my pathetic jokes, but I was having enough trouble just talking. And now I saw he had another blade in his other hand. It was shorter, but serrated like a hunting knife. He held it out to the side, and I knew that he had the doorway covered—my only exit. Baz may have been a real pothead and sometimes barely able to piss without help, but his control of weapons was impressively robust.

“Can’t do that, Max.” He peered up at me. “I’ve gotta job t’ do. Goin’ t’ be paid an’ everythin’. He asked f’ me, specially.”

It had to be Peck he was talking about. His twisted hero worship still seemed to be in place. “Sure, Baz, I understand.” I tried to sound like I did. “But it doesn’t have to be like this, does it? I’m just on a friendly visit here and then I’m off home. In fact, I’m on my way right now. Why don’t you come with me? We can get an early breakfast at the café, or I’ve got beer and bacon sandwiches back at my place. We’ll chat about the old days in London. Whatever you like.”

I knew it wasn’t working. Baz had always operated on another planet. His eyes remained fixed on my face, his arm holding me hostage to his knife. He didn’t look like a guy to be distracted, not even by an old mate.

“I din’ know you’d be there, Max. Y’know. That night.”

“What?” I thought I heard a rustling noise in the hallway outside, but I’d told Seve to stay put. I don’t know why I ever imagined he’d take any bloody notice.

“In town.” Baz’s voice had a wheeze behind it. “That night. Wiv’ the do-gooder bloke. Din’ know you’d be there.”

Shit. I really didn’t want to think about that night again. Not now, and not when I was under threat of getting my throat cut. This was obviously a favorite weapon of Baz’s. I tried to muster up a reassuring smile, I really did. It just wasn’t happening naturally at that moment. “Sure, I understand.” I didn’t know whether to be pleased about Baz’s need to chat to me. On the one hand, it might give me time to think up some escape strategy. On the other hand, it might just put off the evil hour. I was afraid that I’d disgrace myself—that I’d cry in the face of death, or piss myself.

I remembered the sight of the blade going into Stewart. It had been so fast, so unexpected—I’d no memory of any fear at the time. Just anger and a consuming flood of horror, like immersion in a freezing bath, like the world suddenly snapped into negative. Now I wanted to shake my head, to clear the paralysis that shock can bring. I didn’t dare actually do it.

“He told me t’ get rid o’ trouble,” Baz went on. The blade stayed put, but it had loosened from my throat so I could take a quick swallow. Baz’s mouth was trembling a little, some saliva trailing out of one side. “Told me the man from the social was goin’ t’ the cops. They’d put me away. Din’ want that, did I?”

“He wasn’t from the social, Baz. Stewart wasn’t from the government at all. He just wanted to help us. Who told you he was going to put you away? Peck? Did Peck tell you Stewart had to go?” I was shocked to find how emotionally difficult it was to say Stewart’s name. His face flashed through my mind in various settings—frowning at me, laughing, playing football, lying dead on his back on the cold ground. He’d be thrilled if I went the same way as he did, wouldn’t he? Really thrilled that I’d learned so well from the experience… not.

Baz shuddered but his hand on the knife never wavered. “He told me if I did it, things’d be okay. He’s goin’ t’ look after me, Max. Goin’ t’ sort it all out, everythin’ I need. But people want t’ stop him. They want it all f’ th’selves.”

“That’s not true, Baz.” I knew this was probably a hopeless cause, but I had to try to talk him round. “Peck’s not telling you the truth. Yes, you need some help, but he’s not the man to give it. He’s just using you, Baz.”

Baz was either too high on drugs or just didn’t understand what I was saying. “Mr. Peck talks f’ me, that’s what he says. No one else gives a fuck. If I help him wiv’ his problems, he’ll protec’ me—gimme a proper job. Wiv’ him.”

I heard an indrawn breath in the hallway. The shadow by the kitchen door seemed to shift. Was Seve trying to creep up on us? “Baz, just give me the knife.”

Baz frowned. For the first time, I saw his doped gaze waver. I’d often been in charge of keeping him in order. Baz always wanted to know where he stood, what to do, and where he fit in, even if he didn’t always follow guidance. I was hoping old habits died hard. I moved my weight onto the balls of my feet. I might have to dodge suddenly, and my reflexes weren’t what they used to be.

“Nah, Max,” Baz said slowly. I could imagine the rusty cogs of his mind grinding around. “Not happenin’.”