Кевин Брукс - iBoy

It was only when I hacked into the Police National Computer (PNC) and accessed Ellman's criminal record that I finally found out something about him. The infor­mation wasn't exactly up to date — the last entry was dated July 2002 — and it wasn't particularly detailed either ... but it was detailed enough to convince me that Davey hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that Ellman was "a really bad guy".

Name: Howard Ellman

Ethnic type: Caucasian

Height: 1.85m

Weight: 83 kg

Eye colour: Pale blue

Distinguishing marks/tattoos, etc.: None

Address: Unknown

Date of birth: 1o/o1/1971

Place of birth: Addington House, Crow Lane Estate,

London SE 15 6cd Occupation: Unknown

Registered vehicles: None

Convictions/Cautions/Arrests: Arrested Sept 1989, March 1990, April 1992 for aggravated assault, all charges subsequently dropped. Arrested March 1993, Oct 1995, July 2002 for sexual assault, complaints withdrawn, charges dropped.

Additional comments: Suspected involvement in funding/import/supply Class A drugs, as yet unproved. Also possible involvement in organized prostitution, arms smuggling, illegal money lending, people trafficking. Known variously as "The Devil", "Hellman", or "Hell-Man", this individual is highly dangerous and should be approached with extreme caution at all times.

There were no photographs in the PNC file, but there was a link to the computerized custody records at South- wark Borough Police Station, and when I accessed these I found a JPEG image of a mug shot of Ellman which I guessed had been taken when he was in his early twen­ties. It showed an angular-faced man with a thin mouth, a shaved head, and staring, soulless eyes. There was no trace of emotion in his face: no fear, no anger ... nothing at all. It was the face of a man who could take a life as easily as taking a breath.

In the darkness of my room, in the light of the dark­ness inside my head, I studied that face for a long time. And the more I stared at it, the more I wondered how much Howard Ellman had to answer for, how much pain he'd caused, how much suffering ...

I remembered Lucy's anguished words: They ruined me, Tom. They totally fucking ruined me.

And I wondered how many other lives Ellman was responsible for ruining.

It was 03:34:42 when I left the flat and quietly closed the door. I tiptoed down the corridor, paused to put my shoes back on, then carried on down to the lift. My iSkin was glowing. My hood was up. My heart was stone cold.

The estate was unusually quiet as I crossed the stretch of grass between Compton House and Crow Lane. The towers, the streets, the empty black sky ... everything was bathed in that dead-of-night silence that makes you feel like you're the only living thing in the world.

The night was cold. My breath was misting in the air, my hands were icy, and I could feel the soft crunch of frost beneath my feet.

But I didn't care.

Hot or cold ... it didn't make any difference to me. I was in that state of controlled brutality again — in control of being out of control — and the only thing I could feel was an overriding and irresistible sense of purpose. Get there, find them, find him ... get there, find them, find him ... get there, find them, find him ...

I walked on — across the grass, through the gate in the railings, along Crow Lane — and as I approached the entrance to Baldwin House, the sound of voices began to break through the darkened silence. Raised voices, laughter, the soft rumble of an idling car engine ...

I couldn't see anyone yet, but it wasn't hard to guess what kind of people the voices belonged to — I mean, they were hanging around Baldwin House at quarter to four in the morning ... they weren't going to be choir boys, were they?

I heard the car engine revving, a dog snarling, another shout of laughter, and then — as I turned off Crow Lane and into the square around Baldwin House — I saw them: half a dozen or so gang kids, all in hoods and caps, hang­ing around a VW Golf in front of the tower-block doors. A skinny Doberman and a Staff with a spiked collar were skulking around the car, neither of them on leads. A couple of the kids were quite young — twelve or thirteen — but most of them were about seventeen or eighteen.

I didn't recognize any of them.

The dogs noticed me first, and as they both started running at me, barking and snarling, the kids all stopped whatever it was they'd been doing and turned to see what was happening. They saw me walking towards them — my skin shimmering, my hooded face a pale glow of radiating light — and they watched, confused, as the two dogs suddenly sensed something about me that scared the shit out of them. They skidded to a halt about two metres away from me, their ears flat, their tails between their legs, and then they both sloped off, whim­pering quietly.

"What the fuck?" one of the kids said.

As I carried on walking towards them, a tall black guy with a knife scar on his cheek moved towards me, block­ing my way.

"Hey, fuck," he said. "What you —?"

I didn't stop walking. I just raised my arm, placed my hand on his chest, and blew him off his feet with a surge of electricity. As he lay on the ground — his hooded top smoking, his legs twitching — I stepped to the side and laid my hand on the bonnet of the Golf. The engine was still running. The kid in the driver's seat was staring open- mouthed at the tall black guy on the ground. I pressed my palm against the metal of the Golf's bonnet, twitched something in my hand — some kind of nerve or something — and shot a spark of electricity through the bonnet. Noth­ing happened. I tried it again, and this time the spark ignited. A burst of orange flashed under the bonnet, some­thing went WOOF! and suddenly the car was in flames.

As the kid in the car scrambled out, and the others quickly backed away, I left them to it and carried on into Baldwin House.

Troy O'Neil's flat was at the end of the corridor on the ground floor. Number Six. The front door — which was made of reinforced steel — was guarded by a full-length metal grill. I'm sure I could have got through both the door and the grill if I'd wanted to, but instead I just reached up and rang the bell. Light was showing through the edges of the door, so I guessed that O'Neil was in, and probably awake.

I waited.

Orange light from the blazing Golf was flickering through the corridor window, and I could already smell the faint stink of burning rubber in the air. From inside the flat, I heard a ringtone (2Pac's "Hit 'Em Up"). Inside my head, I tuned in and listened to the call. It was from one of the kids outside, calling O'Neil.

Yeah? he answered.

You know that weird kid? The one done your brother? He's here, man. He just fucking —

Yeah, I know.

O'Neil ended the call.

I scanned the flat for other mobiles.

There were three of them, including O'Neil's.

I rang his number.

He answered, angrily. "I just fucking told you —"

"Are you going to open your door, or what?" I said.

"Eh?"

"I'm not waiting all night."

"Who's this?"

I saw an eye appear at the peep-hole in his door.

I waved at him.

"Is that you?" he said.

"Is what who?"

"What?"

I sighed. "Just open the door, for Christ's sake."

There was a pause then. I heard the phone's mouth­piece being covered, muffled voices, and then the metallic clack of locks being unbolted. After a few seconds, the inner door opened, and through the metal grill I saw Troy O'Neil standing in the doorway. He looked a lot like his brother — mixed race, tall, with dead-looking eyes — and I guessed he was in his early twenties. He had his phone in one hand, and the other hand was stuffed in his pocket.