Edge. Part 8

"Sir." Khan looked at Jayce, then at the hard-faced men behind the counter. "He called me 'sir'. I like this boy. I asked" his eyes became large, focused on Richard "if you like Fatboy Slim. We're talking cla.s.sic here. None of your modern din."

"Um, yes. I do. Like it."

"Good."

The red box, when Khan handed it over, fitted in Richard's palm.

"And I'll pay you now, since I trust you." Khan gave Jayce a boiled sweet wrapped in cellophane: that was what it looked like. "You know what would happen if you know, don't you?"

"Yes, Mr Khan. Thank you."

The music changed to Kids in Gla.s.s Houses, who Mrs Kovac liked to play in the kitchen while she was cooking, except that she was in his old life, where everything was clean and rich, taken for granted until now.

I'm so hungry.

But Jayce was leaving the shop. Richard hurried after, clutching the box, feeling acid pain inside. Could a stomach dissolve itself for lack of food?

This was so hard.

Out on the street, beyond the next corner, they stopped. Jayce took the "sweet" out of his pocket, and undid the cellophane a little, revealing caked green powder. It reminded Richard of the orange ammonium dichromate used in cla.s.s to build a volcano, turning green and spewing everywhere when set alight. He thought about trying to explain chemical volcanoes to Jayce; instead he asked about the powder.

"You don't want to be trying this." Jayce dabbed some onto his tongue, and his eyes darkened. "Not till you need to."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Let's get you fed."

"We have to be at this college by ten to eight."

"Plenty of time. What time is it now?"

"I don't... I lost my phone."

"Probably why the Bill ain't picked you up. Come on."

Soon they were at a ramshackle establishment, once a furniture store, from the faded signs. From round back, the aroma of tomato soup and toast was overwhelming. Cracked doors, horizontal across piles of bricks, served as tables. Plastic chairs, with the frozen bubbles of burn marks, were set out in the yard. Some fifteen or twenty people, shabby-looking, were queuing for soup.

"No one asks no questions," said Jayce. "Why we come, ain't it?"

There were ham sandwiches and Bovril crisps as well as soup and toast, an explosion of taste and sensation in Richard's mouth. Nothing had ever been like this: flavourfilled, urgent, seeping into his body through his tongue.

"Am I supposed to be getting paid?" The words just came out. "For the... you know."

"Would you have found this place by yourself?"

"Uh..."

"So, you've been paid, intya?"

Richard shook his head, then wiped the last of his bread round inside the soup cup, soaking up the last of it.

"All right, look," continued Jayce. "I'll see you all right afterward. We... never mind."

A big woman was standing next to Richard. "Did anyone explain that we don't ask questions?"

Richard nodded.

"So we don't, but if someone wants to talk, we listen. And you" she thrust out a green sweatshirt "need to put on an extra layer. Sorry we've no blankets tonight."

"Er... thank you."

"Uh-huh." She watched him a moment, gave a mouth movement that might have been anything, then walked away.

"Do-gooders," muttered Jayce.

"What?" Richard pulled on the sweatshirt. "What do you mean?"

"Feel sorry for you one minute, suck you into the machine the next."

"Machine?"

"The system. The thing thing, man."

"Oh. Right."

"Like teachers, like bosses, like yer fat cats in banks, telling you what to do."

"So what if we don't go to the college tonight, like Mr Khan said?"

"You crazy, Richie-boy? You don't let him down."

There was a contradiction there, invisible to Jayce. But so far being smart had not helped Richard at all; while Jayce with his teeth that looked covered in lichen, his breath stinking, survived.

"How long have you been here? On the streets?"

Some of the others were looking at them.

"Come on." Jayce kicked Richard's ankle. "Let's get gone."

Some time later, walking along a street of graffiti-tagged houses, Richard felt his bowels shifting.

"Uh... Jayce?"

"Yeah, man?"

"How far is the college? I mean, how long will it take to get there?"

"I dunno. Twenty minutes? Maybe a bit more."

"Are there any, uh, toilets closer than that?"

Jayce stared at him. "You're something else, intya?"

"What do you?"

"'Sakes, lookit the street. No one here. Pick a doorway. I won't tell."

"What?" Desperate enough to cry, Richard looked around. There was nowhere else.

"And I ain't gonna watch, neither. See you at the next corner."

"s.h.i.t." Not the kind of language he used.

"Do whatever you like, Richie-boy."

"II'll see you in a bit."

There were three visible cameras one on each pillar of the big gateway leading to the yard in front, the other beyond the yard, inside the main entrance and all three were coated in a blackened mess.

"Been bubbled," said Jayce. "Know what I mean?"

"Sort of."

"Like a spray kind of thing. Shoots upward real high, sticks real well. Hard to clean off."

"So I just go straight in?" Richard felt the small box in his pocket. "Cap on?"

"Take the cap off until you're inside. Most of these dozy b.u.g.g.e.rs" Jayce pointed at the people, all adults, crossing the yard "won't have noticed the cameras are screwed. You'll look more normal, like, with no cap."

"But I put it on inside? With the veil?"

"Of course, unless you're sure every cam's been f.u.c.ked. Anyway, you'll do great."

"You're not coming in?"

"Your gig, not mine. I don't look like a student, or someone's kid."

And I do?

Not if he carried on living like this. He wanted to think there was something inside him that made him different; but he knew that if he stayed on the streets he would change.

"You're going to wait?"

"Sure. f.u.c.k's sake go in, w.i.l.l.ya?"

Taking off his cap, Richard rubbed his face several times, wanting to hide his features as he pa.s.sed through the gate, not trusting that the cameras were dead. His skin felt p.r.i.c.kled as if by tiny ants migrating across him. Then, as he entered the foyer, someone coughed and his heart punched inside his chest. But he had to keep going.

A wall display showed a multicoloured list, including Intermediate Mandarin, 20:00, Room 17, instructor: T. Intermediate Mandarin, 20:00, Room 17, instructor: T. Maxwell, M.A. (Oxon) Maxwell, M.A. (Oxon), which was what Mr Khan had said. The room was upstairs, so he climbed polished steps, pulling his cap on and tipping it low as he pa.s.sed beneath a camera, his feet moving by themselves sua sua sponte sponte, Mr Robbins would have said, but Latin lessons were a world away, even though he was inside a college taking him to Room 17.

"Uh, h.e.l.lo?" This must be T Maxwell. "Are you in this cla.s.s?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it is for adults." A sick brightness rose in his eyes. "I don't suppose you're looking for me?"

"I've got... something. From, er..."

"Shall we call him Mr K?"

Both their hands were shaking, Richard's as he handed over the box, Maxwell's as he took hold of it.

"OK." Maxwell pushed out a shaky breath that smelled of mint. "OK. And I've paid already, you know that, right?"

"Er..."

What to do next? Blankness floated in Richard's mind.

"Did you want to see me later on?" The voice was slick, like grease-stained silk. "Perhaps outside?"

"Um. No."

Fear sluiced down through Richard's body, then he was stumbling from the room, along the corridor and down the grimy stairs, forgetting the cap that was clutched in his hand, his head filled with images of wide-shouldered police with stun-batons and gauntlets, smashing his face before they snapped on magnetic cuffs, dragging him across the floor without regard for

bloodstains, for he was a criminal now.

They'll arrest me. Father will kill me.

The world had changed.

I'm a criminal.Last term, Ms Simms had talked about "phase transitions", the change from ice to liquid water to gas, the same molecules involved, their relationships snapping into new and different configurations. While some changes, like a broken egg, can never be reversed; and you can state the Second Law of Thermodynamics like this: You can't ever go back.

He had destroyed his life.