Chapters (88)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dear Reader …
- Also by Robert Muchamore
- PART ONE
- Walter J Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- PART TWO
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART THREE
- Walter J. Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- PART FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- EPILOGUE
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- Have you read KILLER T?
- 1 SLASHED RUBBER
- 2 NOT HARRY POTTER
‘Remi, I’m sorry. I’ll pay for your door,’ Julius said, then he stepped towards Duke, catching the corner of the Scrabble board and knocking a few letters on the floor. ‘I’ll see you soon. I hope your mum isn’t held up by the transport problems …’
‘Try to steer clear of Army Boys Academy,’ Duke joked.
‘Nice to meet you both,’ Gabe said sweetly as a riot cop helped him over the smashed door.
Julius’s brain was flat out as the cops led a brisk walk down six floors, hoping Duke got better, wondering what was going on in Gabe’s head and if Taiwo would live. Guilty for not feeling bad that Kehinde was dead and imagining what might have happened if he’d run the other way after crawling out of the Mercedes …
‘Careful,’ the cop walking beside Julius said, grabbing the teenager after the back of his thong caught a step. ‘Are you fit?’
‘All good,’ Julius said weakly. He was glad he’d not eaten since breakfast because there was nothing in his belly to puke.
There were four riot cops in the lobby, and more on the street protecting a three-vehicle convoy. Front and back were tatty Hyundai estate cars, the workhorses of Ondo State police. In the middle was a fearsome riot truck, with solid tyres, bulletproof windows and a snowplough-like scoop on the front designed to smash barricades.
The green uphill view from Remi’s apartment had left Julius out of touch with the ground. Every shop had closed, street soccer had ended and there was a hazy, burnt smell in the air.
Gabe was curious as they climbed in the riot truck, impressed by thick bombproof glass and the clank as the airtight door shut.
Solid tyres and poor roads made a tough ride as they sped down empty streets, occasional siren blasts scaring anything that dared get in the way.
The brothers peered through the thick glass slots at endless fires, people whose eyes streamed from tear gas and flimsy barricades made by those trying to protect homes and shops from looting.
Area boys strutted in well-armed packs. The city centre now belonged to them. Small-time crooks who’d spent most of their lives protecting your parking spot, selling bags of weed, or surrounding you with muscle and politely suggesting you lighten your wallet by several hundred naira to make it to the next corner without getting your eye blackened …
Julius saw a dead girl on the ramp leading up to the beltway. Gabe’s age, probably a kid from the slums beyond. She’d been smashed by something heavy and fast. Gabe saw her too. He kept quiet, but gripped Julius’s wrist.
‘She might go to heaven,’ Gabe said after a while. ‘Kehinde definitely won’t.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was London’s biggest protest since the Iraq War. Packing Parliament Square, down The Mall to Buckingham Palace and northwards, engulfing Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square.