Under Cover (Agent 21) (2 page)

– Don’t do it
, Ziggy warned.
Don’t pick his pocket. This one’s not as stupid as he looks.

– It’ll be fine.

A weighty wallet was worth a bit of risk.

Ricky staggered up. As he did so, he slipped his right hand into the man’s cagoule pocket. Sure enough, there was a fat wallet hiding inside.

– There you go. Easy as falling off a—

‘You should do your laces up, Coco,’ the man said.

‘Yeah,’ Ricky said, looking directly into the man’s eyes to stop his target’s gaze from wandering. The man returned the stare with a strange sort of half-smile.

‘Probably.’ He had the wallet in his fist now. It felt good and heavy. He slipped it up into his right-hand sleeve where he had sewn a little pocket.

– Job done.

‘Unless you’re planning another pratfall sometime soon.’

Ricky hesitated, just for a moment.

– He knows you were faking it.

– No he doesn’t. He’s just a weirdo who wants to chat.

But Ricky did feel a little uneasy as he got down onto one knee and started doing up the lace. The man was standing over him.

‘Would you like a sweet?’ the man asked. ‘I’ve got some here somewhere.’ He started patting down his cagoule with his free hand.

‘No, really,’ said Ricky as the man’s hands drifted alarmingly close to the pocket that had once held his wallet. ‘I . . . I don’t really eat sweets.’

The man blinked in surprise. ‘Weird,’ he murmured. ‘Still, if you’re sure.’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’

‘OK. No sweets. But there is one other thing.’

‘What?’

‘You should probably give me my wallet back.’

Ricky froze. His laces were still undone as he got to his feet. ‘I don’t know what you—’

‘It’s up your right sleeve. Just in case you’ve forgotten.’ The man grinned, and Ricky saw a mouthful of yellowing and rotten teeth. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

Ricky sized the man up. He was tall and looked strong, but there
was
that walking stick, not to mention the limp. Ricky, on the other hand, was thin and gangly. A bit of a weakling. Rubbish at fighting.

But fast.

And he knew that sometimes you have to play to your strengths.

His mouth was dry. His heart was pumping.

– Run!
said Ziggy.

Ricky ran.

Crowds, Ricky had noticed, always seem busier when you’re trying to escape them. He felt his loose shoelaces whipping round his ankles as he swerved at top speed around the tourists. His pulse was racing as he approached the busy road circling Trafalgar Square.

– Mind the cars!
Ziggy screamed.

The road was crammed full of buses, black cabs and other vehicles. A couple of them sounded their horn furiously as Ricky sprinted across the road towards the Strand, dodging the moving cars as he went.

He was sweating heavily by the time he made it safely to the other side. He allowed himself a moment to look over his shoulder.

The man was standing on the edge of Trafalgar Square. He didn’t look flustered. In fact, he still had that slightly amused look on his face as he stared directly at Ricky.

– He makes me nervous.

– Me too.

– You couldn’t fool him.

– Thanks for the reminder.

– Maybe your skills aren’t so awesome after all
.

– Shut up, Ziggy.

Ricky looked forward and started running again, east along the Strand.

He figured that anyone in pursuit would expect him to head north and get lost in the side streets of Covent Garden. But there was a little shortcut he knew – some steps that headed south off the Strand towards the river. He stopped at the top of them and looked back again. No sign of the man. With a limp and a walking stick he wouldn’t be moving fast – unless he was good at hopping. Ricky descended two steps at a time. At the bottom, he stopped to regain his breath and tie his shoelaces, his back against a brick wall.

– Relax!

– I’m trying . . .

His hands were trembling. He’d come so close to being caught, and he knew what
that
would mean. A march down to the police station, and before he knew it he’d be back in care. The do-gooders would have him in their clutches, good and proper.

– What’s in the wallet?

Still crouching down after tying his laces, Ricky removed the wallet from his sleeve and opened it up. He grinned. It was stuffed full of notes. He reckoned there were several hundred pounds in there. There were also nine or ten credit cards. Ricky pulled a couple of cards out and immediately saw that they had different names on them: R. F. E. Martin and Mr Jim Daniels. He flicked through some more of the cards. Dr H. Newland. Mr Godfrey S. Davies. There was a driving licence and a library card, both with a photo of the man – the black skin, the bald head – but each with a different name.

– What is he? Some sort of criminal? A fraudster?

– You’ve messed with the wrong guy.

Ricky tucked the cards back into the wallet. He wouldn’t try to use any of them. If the police were after this guy, they’d be monitoring his cards and that would be a great way to lead them to Ricky. The cash, though, was a different matter – completely untraceable. Ricky tucked the wallet into his pocket. He was already imagining the food he’d buy with it. A burger, maybe. Extra fries. Large milkshake . . .

‘Are you sure you won’t have a sweet, Coco?’

Ricky’s blood froze as a shadow fell over him. A metre away he saw two feet and the bottom of a walking stick. He looked up.

The man still had a slight smile. But there was a hint of steel in his eyes.

– He’s bad news. All those identities, could be organized crime. You don’t want to get mixed up in that. Just give him the wallet and get out of here.

Ricky eased himself to his feet. He removed the wallet from his pocket and handed it over.

‘Thank you very much,’ said the man in his deep voice. ‘I’m wondering if you happened to take a look inside?’

Ricky shook his head.

‘Names,’ the man continued, obviously not believing him. ‘Some are more suitable than others for different occasions. What’s
your
name, by the way?’

‘Billy,’ Ricky lied instinctively.

The man looked delighted. ‘You see how easy it is! Now you have three names – Billy, Coco and whatever your real one is.’

‘Right,’ Ricky said. Today was getting weirder by the second. So was this bloke. ‘Er, are you going to tell the police about me?’

‘The police? God, no. They can be very tiresome at times.’ He pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet. ‘Are you hungry?’ he said.

Ricky couldn’t help but nod.

‘Me too. So why don’t I buy you something to eat, and I can tell you where you went wrong?’

Something to eat. Ricky salivated at the thought.

– Don’t be stupid
, Ziggy told him.
This guy’s trouble. Smile sweetly and get out of here.

Ricky edged along the wall, back towards the steps. The man gave a little shrug and offered him the twenty-pound note anyway. Uncertainly, Ricky took it. But the moment the man released it from his fingers, he grabbed Ricky’s wrist. It was a tight grip, and made Ricky wince.

‘Every lie needs an element of truth, Coco,’ the man said. ‘Next time you try the pratfall, make sure there’s some blood. Knee, elbow, anywhere. Use the fake stuff if you have it, it’s pretty good. If I’d seen that, you might have got away with it.’

‘Let go of me.’

‘And when you know you’re faster than someone, run in a straight line. Otherwise they might out-think you, like I just did. And you’ve got to admit, it’s a bit embarrassing being caught by a man with only one leg.’

‘
What?
’

The man released his grip and Ricky staggered towards the steps.

‘Afraid so,’ the man said. He tapped the lower half of his leg with his stick. It made a dull, clunking sound.

– Good skills
, Ziggy said slyly.
Outrun by a bloke with one—

– Shut up, Ziggy.

Now Ricky really wanted to get out of there.

‘Tell me, Coco.’

‘What?’

The man smiled, once more revealing the teeth of a man who ate more sweets than was good for him. ‘Do you want a job?’

– A job? What sort of job would a guy like him be offering?

‘Course not,’ he said.

‘Oh. Shame. But I’ll tell you what – put that twenty-pound note in your shoe. By far the safest place for it.’

‘Right.’

The man made his way up the steps. ‘And, Coco?’

Ricky stopped and looked back. ‘
What?
’

‘You can call me Felix,’ the man said. ‘One name’s as good as another, and maybe we’ll meet again.’

In your dreams
, Ricky thought as he scrambled up the steps, and away from the weirdo with no hair but many names.
In your dreams.

Home, for Ricky, was a single room in a dilapidated house on the outskirts of Hackney. The other occupants of the house changed from week to week, but Ricky had learned not to talk to them anyway. No normal person would stay there. The whole house stank of rotten wood and mildew and there was the scurrying sound of rodents in the ceiling day and night. The room itself contained nothing but a single bed and a sink in the corner with a tap that never stopped dripping. Nobody ever cleaned the toilet that he had to share with several others, and as a result it was too disgusting for words.

It cost Ricky £150 a month to stay there. On the first day of each month, his landlord would arrive to collect the money. Baxter was a frightening man – he had a gaunt face and hardly any lips. Whenever Ricky handed over his money, Baxter would carefully count every last note. He’d never asked Ricky his age, and if it worried him that a kid was living in a dump like this, he didn’t show it.

Ricky had seen what happened when someone failed to pay up. Baxter had a couple of heavies who always waited in the car on rent day. If anyone was even fifty p short, the heavies would kick them out of the house. It usually involved some bruises, and occasionally a cut lip.

– At least we’ve got another twenty-four hours till rent day
, Ricky thought as he tramped, footsore, towards the house.

– Then what’s Baxter’s Mercedes doing parked in the street?

Ricky stopped and blinked. The Mercedes was twenty-five metres away, parked right outside the house. There was no doubt that it was Baxter’s. A silver Merc stuck out in this part of town.

– What does he want?

Ricky walked past the vehicle. It was empty. That meant Baxter’s heavies were inside the house. And
that
meant trouble.

There was a commotion inside the house. Something was happening on the first floor, where Ricky’s bedroom was. He climbed the stairs nervously. Sure enough, there on the landing were Baxter and two thick-set men – square jaws, flat noses, scars all over their faces. Ricky called them the Chuckle Brothers. Just his little joke. They weren’t the type to chuckle.

– What are the Chuckle Brothers doing outside our room?
Ziggy said.

The heavies were standing on both sides of Ricky’s bedroom door, while Baxter loitered a couple of metres from them.

‘Ah, there you are, kid,’ said Baxter. He had the voice of a thousand cigarettes. ‘Been waiting for you.’

‘It’s rent day tomorrow, not today,’ Ricky said. He didn’t try to keep the dislike from his voice. His landlord was a scumbag.

‘Not for you, kid. You’re out of here.’

Ricky stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You stupid as well as ugly?’ Baxter said. The Chuckle Brothers gave a nasty laugh, just as a woman appeared in the doorway of Ricky’s room. She had three children with her – hungry, pale-faced things. Immediately Ricky understood. Baxter had managed to squeeze more money out of this woman than he could out of Ricky.

‘I’ve got nowhere to go,’ Ricky said.

‘Anyone bring a violin?’ Baxter asked. He nodded at Chuckle 1, who picked up a bag at his feet and threw it towards Ricky. ‘Your stuff,’ Baxter said. ‘And you owe me money.’

‘What for?’

‘For the damage you’ve done to the room, you thieving little runt. Peeling wallpaper, cigarette burns—’

‘They were there when I moved in – I don’t even smoke. And anyway, I haven’t got any money.’

‘When did
your
problems become
my
problems, kid?’ Baxter looked over his shoulder at Chuckle 1. ‘Turn out his pockets.’

– You need that money! Run!

But Ricky didn’t move. His eyes were on the bag. There wouldn’t be much in there. A change of clothes, some toiletries. But it would contain the only two things that
meant
anything to Ricky: a picture in a frame of him with his mum, dad and sister, before the accident. And a letter, rather dog-eared now, in his sister’s neat handwriting. He wasn’t leaving without them.

The bag was three metres away. Baxter’s man was four metres beyond it.

– I can grab it before he gets me, then run down the stairs.

– No you can’t. Leave it and get out of here.

But that wasn’t an option. Not if the picture was in the bag. Ricky ran forward and grabbed it – it wasn’t heavy – then spun round and sprinted back towards the top of the stairs. He was just about to make the first step down when he felt a fist in the small of his back. He lost his balance and tumbled. His shin cracked against the corner of one of the steps and his head hit the banister. He called out in pain as he thumped down the stairs, dragging the bag behind him.

And when he hit the bottom of the stairs, Chuckle 1 was there, behind him. He pulled Ricky to his feet, then thumped him in the pit of his stomach. Winded, Ricky doubled over, but then felt his attacker pull him up by his shoulders. He knew the punch in the face was coming, but didn’t expect it to be so hard. Chuckle 1’s knuckles connected with his cheek. He felt blood spurt from his nose, and a cracking, pulsing pain on the right side of his face. Chuckle 1 patted him down. He found the money in his back pocket in no time. He waved it up towards Baxter, who was standing at the top of the stairs.