Кевин Брукс - iBoy

Six of them turn and form a line behind the nasty- looking guy, blocking iBoy's way to the Transit, while the others carry on manhandling the girls into the back of the van. iBoy knows that he doesn't have much time now. If they get the girls into the van and drive them away, it'll be too late.

So he doesn't waste any time thinking about what to do, he just does it.

He keeps running, heading straight for Nasty, and just as he reaches him, just as Nasty is pulling a knife from his pocket, iBoy screams like a madman and throws himself at Nasty and blasts out a huge burst of power. An ear-splitting CRACK! rips through the air, and just for a moment everything disappears in a blinding flash of electric blue. The power and heat of it is so intense that it singes the hairs on the back of iBoy's arm.

He stands there for a few seconds, waiting for the after-image of the flash to fade from his eyes, and then he looks down at the bodies on the ground. There are seven of them. Some are still semi-conscious — groaning weakly, coughing and spluttering, rubbing their eyes — but most of them have been knocked out. They're just lying there on the ground, perfectly still. Nasty has taken the worst of it. He's lying on his back, about two metres away from iBoy, his face burned red and his eyebrows smouldering. His nylon hooded jacket has melted into his skin, and he's bleeding from his ears, nose, and mouth. iBoy looks up at the others — the ones at the back of the van with the girls. The two nearest to him are on their knees, holding their heads in their hands. Another two are already running off towards Fitzroy House. And the last two are still holding the girls, but not making any effort to move.

"Let them go," iBoy says.

They let them go, and the two girls stagger towards iBoy.

"You OK?" he asks them.

"Yeah ... I think so," one of them says, gazing around at the bodies on the ground.

The other one doesn't say anything. She's crying.

"Where do you live?" iBoy asks the first one.

"Disraeli."

"Are you all right to get back on your own?"

She nods.

"Sure?"

"Yeah ..."

"Go on then," he says gently. "You'll be all right now. Just go straight home, OK?"

She looks at him, hesitating, and iBoy can see the questions in her eyes — who are you? what are you? what have you done to these boys?

"I think you'd better get your friend home now," he says to her. "She's pretty shaken up."

"Yeah ... yeah, of course," the first girl says, moving over to her friend and putting her arm round her. She says a few comforting words to her, wipes some tears from her face, then turns back to iBoy. "Thanks," she says, smiling. "I mean, whoever you are ... thanks."

He smiles back at her.

She nods, turns round, and the two of them start walk­ing back. iBoy watches them for a moment, making sure that they're both OK, then he turns back to the two boys at the van. They haven't moved.

"You waiting for something?" he says to them.

They shake their heads.

"Well, fuck off then."

They run. iBoy walks round to the front of the van. The driver's door is open, but there's no one inside. Whoever was driving must have run off at some point. iBoy leans in, pulls the keys from the ignition, and drops them to the ground. He puts his finger to the ignition and gives it a quick zap. The dashboard glows, the engine roars, then sparks start crackling and popping under the bonnet.

Within a few seconds, smoke starts rising from the engine and flickering blue flames begin to appear. iBoy shuts the van door, spits on the ground, and walks away.

He doesn't look back.

CROW LANE "SUPERHERO"

Local police are concerned at reports of a so-called "superhero" fighting crime on the Crow Lane Estate. Witnesses have described several incidents in which a mysterious figure has been seen taking the law into his own hands in the vicinity of the notorious high-rise estate. One resident, who wishes to remain anonymous, told the Southwark Gazette how she was recently saved from a mugging by "a masked man in a hooded costume". "He just appeared out of nowhere," she said. "There was a bright blue flash, which blinded me for a moment, and the next thing I knew the muggers were running away." When asked if the police condoned the "superhero's" deeds, a spokesman said, "While the intentions of this individual may be good, the way he's going about them is wrong. The police strongly advise against all forms of vigilante action, and we would urge this person, whoever he is, to let the police do their job."

http://www.southwarkgazette.co.uk/home/09041o/local

When I woke up on Monday, I felt as if I'd just woken up from a very long and intensely vivid dream. It was a really strange sensation, because I knew that the things in my head that felt like dream memories were actually real memories — memories of the last ten days. And I knew that I hadn't been dreaming for the last ten days ...

But I still felt as if I had.

I lay in bed for a while, trying not to think about it, trying instead to just feel perfectly normal ... but it's hard not to think about something when you're lying in your bed, just staring at the ceiling, acutely aware that you're trying not to think about something ... and it's even harder to feel perfectly normal when it's perfectly obvious you're not.

So, in the end, I gave up.

I got out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed.

When I went into the kitchen, Gram was sitting at the table, holding what looked like a bank statement in her hand.

"Morning, Gram," I said, sitting down. "How are you —?"

"What's this, Tommy?" she said sternly.

"Sorry?"

"This," she repeated, waving the bank statement at me. "Fifteen thousand pounds, deposited anonymously into my bank account on the thirty-first of March." She glared at me. "Do you know anything about it?"

"Me?" I said, feigning surprise and indignation, while at the same time mentally kicking myself for forgetting all about it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about this," she said, passing me the state­ment and pointing out the deposit. "Look ... see? Someone's put fifteen thousand pounds into my account."

I smiled at her. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

She glared at me again. "Not if I don't know who it's from or what it's for."

I shrugged. "Does it matter? I mean, money's money —"

"Yes, Tommy. It matters."

I looked at the bank statement. "Maybe it's from your publishers," I suggested. "A bonus or something ..."

"A bonus?"

I shrugged again. "I don't know, do I?"

"It's not from my publishers, I've already checked. And the bank can't tell me who it's from either." She looked at me. "Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"

"Why would I?"

Gram hesitated.

"What?" I asked her.

She looked me in the eye. "You'd tell me if you were in any trouble, wouldn't you?"

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

She shook her head. "Look, I know how hard it is ... around here, I mean. It's so easy to get mixed up with the wrong kind of people —"

"Gram," 1 said, genuinely confused. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

She reached across and put her hand on mine. "Just tell me the truth, Tommy. Did you get that money from somewhere and put it into my account?"

I shook my head. "Where would I get that kind of money from?"

"Where does anyone get that kind of money from in Crow Town?"

I stared at her. "You think I'm selling drugs?"

She shrugged, "I'm just asking —"

"Christ , Gram," I said angrily. "You really think I'd do that?"

"So, you're not?"