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
‘No point you guys standing around,’ Julius said rigidly, when he came back with his boarding pass and luggage receipts tucked into his passport. ‘And you never know how long it’ll take to clear security.’
‘Keep safe, mate,’ Georgia said tearfully. She went on tiptoes for a goodbye hug, but found herself too low, until Julius dropped down on one knee. ‘Message me every day.’
‘You, Matt and Alex are my only friends in the world,’ Julius noted, smudging tears away. ‘You’ll be sick of my messages.’
Georgia tried to say, I won’t, but it came out as a big sob.
John didn’t feel close to Julius, but the emotion was contagious, and his eyes glazed as he hugged Julius goodbye.
‘I might never see him again,’ Georgia’s voice wobbled as Julius got eaten by an automatic door.
‘Course you will,’ John said, sliding an arm around his daughter’s back and giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. ‘This has been a long day! I need coffee before we drive back to your nan’s …’
SEVENTY
Julius had the right accent and his skin was the same colour as everyone else’s, but Nigeria no longer felt like home. The sun seemed too bright, tropical air sapped his strength and the six-hour bus ride to Akure was a hell of loud voices, potholes and body odour.
He could have afforded one of the black cars lined up outside International Arrivals, but the drivers were controlled by the Lagos Transport Union and notorious for taking passengers a few kilometres before robbing them at gunpoint.
The bus stopped in Ibadan and Ife, where driver and conductor climbed on the shabby roof to retrieve luggage. Julius peered out nervously, making sure nobody tried to make off with his airline-tagged Samsonite bags that would surely catch the eye of every crook who saw them.
A handsome preacher boarded in Ife and acted sore when Julius refused to buy a Bible with a 3D Jesus on the cover. Julius craved the code of silence on the London Underground as the preacher squatted in the aisle at the back of the bus and started singing hymns with the four large women squashed in the back row, occasionally breaking rhythm when the bus jarred their spines.
Twenty-one hours after saying goodbye to Georgia, the bus clattered into Akure’s transit park. It hadn’t rained all day and evening sun made an orange haze, with the windowless hulk of the bombed Transport Union building silhouetted and the sickly smell of diesel from local buses that were too unreliable for drivers to cut their engines.
The arrival of a long-distance bus drew beggars, boy porters, women selling soft drinks from wheeled coolers and unlicensed taxi drivers. Julius hadn’t peed in six hours, but while less-burdened passengers charged the breeze-block toilets, he didn’t dare take eyes off his luggage.