Mosi's War Read online

  But he had missed the news. Would have to wait another hour for the next bulletin. He switched to News 24. They were reporting on a riot in Asia somewhere.

  ‘We had a riot here, pal,’ he said to the TV. ‘A home-grown one.’

  But the reporter wasn’t listening. And Patrick didn’t want to hear the news. He needed cheering up. He flicked through the channels till he found a horror movie. Now that was more like it. Teenagers being chased by a mad axe man always cheered him up.

  The phone rang. It was his granny. ‘Good thing you’re in. There was trouble on the estate the night.’

  ‘Was there?’ he said casually. ‘Never heard.’

  ‘Never heard indeed!’ You could never get away with a lie to his granny. ‘Where’s that mother of yours?’

  He tried to cover for her. Was she in a bath? Having a nap? Busy in the kitchen making him something special to eat? None of them sounded believable and he hesitated a moment too long.

  ‘She’s no’ in.’

  His granny gave a big sigh. Exasperated. And he wondered then if he could tell his granny about Papa Blood. But in the same second he thought of it, he knew that his magic might get to her too. Even his granny, who was scared of no one, wouldn’t be safe.

  ‘As long as you’re in,’ she said at last. ‘Have you done your homework?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Knew he would probably lie anyway. ‘I’ll phone in the morning. Make sure you’re up for school.’

  He opened the balcony doors and stood looking out over the estate. He loved living this high up, surveying the world, seeing it spread out in front of him, the people like ants on the ground below. It was raining so hard now he could see nothing. The other flats were shrouded in an eerie mist. It made what he could see look even more atmospheric. He wished, as he’d done so often before, that he could recite the names of the hills. The hills that peeked between the tower blocks on a clear day. He knew nothing. But he could change that, he thought, in a sudden fit of enthusiasm. Tomorrow he would learn them. He would make a goal of learning things. Something new every day.

  But he couldn’t keep Papa Blood’s face out of his mind for long. He saw it again, saw his face change from that of a simpleton, to the man who had terrified Mosi. He saw again that flash in his eyes, when he saw that Patrick knew who he really was. Saw the cruel coldness in them.

  Yet, Mosi was right, how could Patrick know that? He’d been wrong. Of course, he’d been wrong. That thought lifted his spirits. Yes, that was it. He’d been so scared he’d imagined something that wasn’t there.

  In his mind he played out that scene in the cemetery again and again. The hand on his shoulder that seemed to come from nowhere, the diamond in his ring catching the light, his voice soft as smoke. You’re the boy who was on the television. The boy who saw that suicide. Still smiling, till he saw that Patrick had shrunk back, had recognised him. And, yes, that was when his look had changed. That was when those eyes had turned to ice.

  The scene played over and over in his mind. The hand on his shoulder, the ring shining in the light, that voice, those eyes. There was something here that was knocking on his memory. But what was it?

  The diamond in Papa Blood’s ring catching the light . . .

  And in a flash, another scene was being played out in front of Patrick’s eyes. His legs went weak. And he knew he was in even more danger.

  Chapter 47

  Mosi sat in his bedroom. Patrick had been wrong. Papa Blood had not realised that he recognised him. That was impossible. Had to be impossible.

  From the living room he heard his mother laugh at something on television and her laugh made him smile. His mother laughed so rarely. He had to protect his parents. They had risked everything to keep him safe. Everything.

  But perhaps now it was time to face up to his past too. He had to protect Patrick.

  If only he had not told Patrick about Papa Blood.

  It was all Mosi’s fault.

  And yet . . .

  His head ached trying to work this out. Something gnawed at his brain. Patrick had been so sure. What if he was right? That Papa Blood sensed that Patrick knew his real identity? Why should he think that look of recognition meant Patrick knew his real identity?

  Unless . . .

  He held his head between his hands as if he could take control of the thoughts tumbling in his mind.

  Unless he thought that Patrick had recognised him, not as Papa Blood, but as someone else? And what had he said to Patrick? You’re the boy who was on the television. The boy who saw the suicide.

  Hassan, that man who had died, had been terrified of something. Afraid of being sent back, they all said. He had been nervous and afraid for weeks, people said. Stocking up an empty flat to hide in. When his brother had disappeared, he had become even more afraid.

  But, what if he had been afraid not of being sent back, but of something else? Someone else.

  Papa Blood.

  What if Hassan, and his brother, had recognised Okafor as Papa Blood too.

  Mosi shot forward. He lost control of his thoughts completely.

  Mosi remembered the dead cat in the underpass. The blood smeared over the graffiti. Why didn’t he realise it before? They had all been warnings. Warnings to anyone who might have recognised him here.

  A warning to Hassan, and his brother.

  But Papa Blood had taken no chances. He had found Hassan. It hadn’t been a suicide at the top of that tower block. It had been murder.

  And Patrick had seen it.

  Chapter 48

  Patrick’s head was swimming. He felt dizzy. The memory of that day played in his head like a scene from a film. It had been a murder he had witnessed. How could he not have realised that before? The first thing that had caught his eye, that tiny beam of light, for a second dancing along the wall. Now, he realised what it had been. It had been the light flashing from that big diamond in Okafor’s ring. He saw again all that had happened on that rooftop. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

  That moment came spinning into his mind once more. A memory locked away until he had seen the flash from Okafor’s ring and it had suddenly come flooding back. Now Patrick was returned to that morning, He was waiting at the lift, when, just for a second, a dancing beam of light had caught his eye, and he had turned and seen the man falling, his arms flailing wildly, as if he was trying to hold on to something. Hadn’t he thought then that the man must have changed his mind? But he hadn’t changed his mind. He’d never wanted to jump in the first place. He wanted to live. Patrick’s eyes hadn’t followed his descent to the ground. He couldn’t bear to look at that. Instead, he had moved his eyes back to the roof and he had seen someone else there. Someone who moved out of view at the same moment the man had gone over the edge.

  But Patrick had seen that person. Even now, he could see clearly who it was.

  Mr Okafor. Papa Blood.

  And Okafor had looked across and seen Patrick watching him. For a second their eyes had locked. That was the recognition he had seen in Patrick’s eyes. Not that he was Papa Blood, hiding here under a false identity, but that here was the man responsible for Hassan’s death.

  Patrick’s brain went into overdrive. He saw now how they could catch Papa Blood. And keep Mosi out of it. If Patrick went to the police and told them he’d seen Mr Okafor at the scene of the crime, surely they would take Mr Okafor in for questioning, and once in custody they would take his fingerprints, his DNA, whatever, and they would find out his true identity.

  Nothing to do with Mosi.

  He punched the air with satisfaction.

  He should tell the police now. He almost reached for the phone, but no. He wanted to tell Mosi. He wanted him to know he was safe. He, Patrick, had worked it out. He, Patrick, had saved the day. He wanted to go down and tell Mosi. See the look on his face.

  He took a step, and just then, he heard a squeak of a floorboard in the hall.

  Someone was in the flat with him.
r />   Chapter 49

  Patrick prayed it was his mum. He wanted to call out, but he had no voice. Because he knew in his heart it wasn’t her. His mum would have bounced in, yapping loudly, the moment she came through the door. No. It wasn’t his mother.

  It was Papa Blood. But how had he got in?

  Patrick wondered with a shiver of fear if he’d left the door on the latch. Always getting into trouble for it, and had he done it again, on the phone to Cody, not thinking? That stupid mistake might cost him his . . .

  No. Don’t think like that, Patrick.

  He looked around for a place to hide. A place to escape. But there was none. There was only this room, with the kitchen off it and he wouldn’t have time to make it in there.

  He was on the thirteenth floor of a tower block. Thirteen floors up. Thirteen floors down.

  Another squeak. He could hear it above the noise of the horror movie. The only light in the room its flickering images on the wall.

  He could scream at the top of his lungs, alert the whole estate, but they’d only think it was the movie. The volume too loud. He wanted to switch it off.

  Why couldn’t his body move?

  A weapon. He needed a weapon. His eyes darted round the room. In films there was always something handy.

  If he could make it to the kitchen, there would be a knife. But he would never make it to the kitchen.

  Another squeak. And the memory bore itself into his head, what Mosi had told him, or hadn’t told him. What Papa Blood had done to those boys. Something so bad Mosi couldn’t bring himself even to speak of it. The horrors Patrick had read on the internet flooded back to him. His limbs unfroze and his brain started working again.

  His mum, as usual, hadn’t cleared up the tea dishes. His plate and hers were still lying on the sofa. And crossed over them, two forks, two knives. Steak knives. He snatched both knives up from the plates. And moved as silently as he could behind the door.

  The shadow loomed against the wall. A scream went up from the television, Patrick began to sweat.

  One more step, Papa Blood was almost inside the room. This was his chance. Surprise was his only other weapon. Patrick leapt at him, struck as hard as he could, but Papa Blood was a giant and one knife seemed to bounce off his chest. The other sank into his arm. He plucked it out and threw it aside. But the blow was enough to make him stagger back for a moment. Patrick snatched his chance and tried to get past him, making for the front door. But Papa Blood grabbed him and brought him down. Patrick kicked hard at his face, rolled away and got to his feet again.

  Papa Blood made no sound. No shout. No yell. Used to tackling an enemy in silent darkness.

  The only sound was from the television. Screams and yells, teenagers running from some unreal horror. Some kind of cloaked monster coming after them.

  Papa Blood was on his feet too.

  Patrick made a run for the open balcony door. ‘Help!’ he screamed it out into the night. ‘Help!!!!’ As loud as he could.

  A dying teenager screamed in the movie.

  A big hand clasped over his mouth and he was dragged back. Patrick sank his teeth hard into Papa Blood’s hand. For a half-second he let go and Patrick twisted away, tried to go past him. But he was grabbed again and lifted off his feet. Patrick knew what he intended.

  He was lifting him towards the balcony. This would be another tragic accident, or a teenage suicide.

  The terror of it gave Patrick strength he didn’t know he had. He kicked his legs wildly. He reached for the edge of the balcony door, curled his fingers round it.

  ‘No!’ He yelled it out but it was drowned in the noise from the film. He had to hold on. That thought was steel in his head. Hold on! He would not let go of that door, nothing would make him loosen his grip, because as soon as he did, it would be all over for him.

  And with one swoop Papa Blood brought down his giant fist on Patrick’s arm. He heard the crack. The sudden blast of pain almost made him faint. But he couldn’t faint. He let go, no choice, and his arm fell uselessly against him. He felt himself being lifted, and he knew he was going over. And he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  And right then, another figure leapt out of the darkness.

  It was Mosi.

  He was swinging a baseball bat wildly and moving so fast he gave Papa Blood no time to think. Papa Blood dropped Patrick to the ground, and turned on Mosi. But Mosi was too fast for him. He swung the bat at Papa Blood’s chest, and again and again, pushing him back against the low balcony wall. The man began to lose his balance. He tried to right himself, but again Mosi gave him no chance. He cracked the bat against Papa Blood’s head and he tumbled right back, his hands reaching for something to stop him, but there was nothing. And with a grunt, just a grunt, he went over the wall and into the darkness beyond.

  Chapter 50

  ‘Is he dead?’ Patrick’s voice was thick with pain. He wanted to pass out. ‘Is he dead, Mosi?’

  Mosi let the bat slip from his shaking hands. He turned to Patrick but he said nothing.

  ‘He must be dead. Look and see, Mosi. Look over and see.’

  ‘He’s gone, Patrick,’ Mosi said, he sounded as if he might cry. ‘Is your arm broken? You need help.’

  Patrick tried to answer, but it hurt to speak. Then in an instant the words would not come. Because he could see what Mosi couldn’t. Behind him fingers appearing again above the balcony, the hand clutching at the wall, pulling itself up.

  ‘Mosi . . .’

  His frightened eyes told Mosi everything. Mosi swung round. He could see the face, Papa Blood’s face, so close, so terrifying. He shook with fear when he saw those eyes.

  Was this man immortal? Would he never die?

  ‘Help me . . .’ His fingers clawed at the top of the wall. One foot rested on a ledge below. Beneath him the ground disappeared into murky, misty darkness.

  ‘I caaw,’ he said again, in their own language. Pleading with him as if that would make a difference.

  And all Mosi would have to do was press on those fingers and Papa Blood would lose his grip. He would fall. He would die at last. All he had to do was push against that terrifying face that had never shown pity for anyone. One simple push, and the monster would fall.

  He had the power to end it, to kill him, to let him die. To avenge Asad, and all the others. Justice would be served.

  And he couldn’t do it.

  Mosi reached down for his hand.

  Patrick’s voice behind him. ‘What are you doing, Mosi!’ Unbelieving.

  The big hand folded itself around his. Squeezed. Was that with gratitude? Mosi knew he could never haul him up, but he could help him get a good grip on the balcony wall. Then he would leave him there, get Patrick, get them both out of here as quickly as he could. Alert the police. Papa Blood would be arrested for Hassan’s murder. Mosi had no thought in his head but that. But he could not push him over.

  Papa Blood lost his footing on the ledge. Now, the only thing holding him was Mosi. He tried desperately to get a footing on the ledge again, but it was impossible. His foot was wet, the ledge was slippery. And Mosi knew he was not strong enough to haul him up, or hold him for much longer.

  Papa Blood knew that too. His eyes changed. The squeeze on Mosi’s fingers became more painful. Mosi realised too late what Papa Blood was doing. If he was going down, he wasn’t going down alone.

  Mosi tried to pull his hand free, but the grip was tight. Papa Blood’s eyes didn’t leave him. His face was twisted into a snarl. Mosi’s foot slipped on the wet balcony. He began to lose his balance. He struggled, and his foot slipped again. The man’s hand was too strong, his grip too fierce.

  In that instant he was back in Africa, and Papa Blood was there in front of him, in front of them all. He could still hear his words. You can never escape from Papa Blood. And in that second Mosi knew he was right. He would never get away from him.

  The thought was too much to bear. Mosi closed his eyes and prayed, and he had not praye
d in such a long time.

  In that same moment, Papa Blood’s wet hand began to slide from Mosi’s grasp. Papa Blood’s eyes grew wide. Was he afraid? No. He didn’t look afraid. Just angry. Angry because he knew there was no saving him now.

  Finger by finger his hand slipped free and Mosi watched him go, falling back, his arms waving wildly. His voice a wailing howl in the night.

  Down and down and down.

  Mosi stepped back before he hit the ground. Stepped back and slid to the ground beside Patrick.

  ‘I can’t believe you, Mosi.’ Patrick’s voice was weak, his face white as a corpse. ‘You tried to save him, Mosi. He was going to kill the both of us, and you were trying to save him.’

  How could he explain? How could he tell him? ‘I made a promise, Patrick, long ago. I will never kill anyone else in my life. Not deliberately. No matter what, I will never kill again.’

  Chapter 51

  ‘Hey, son, are you OK?’

  The sudden call wafted from the mist surrounding the tower block opposite. A man’s voice, almost panicking. ‘Son! Are you OK!’

  Mosi drew in his breath. ‘Someone saw me. Someone was watching!’

  Patrick struggled to his feet. ‘Go, Mosi. Go right now.’ Then he waved across at the man with his one good arm while the other hung limply.

  ‘I’m OK . . . call the police!’

  ‘Done!’ the man shouted and through the mist Patrick could see him waving a mobile phone.

  Patrick was almost afraid to look down. Too afraid that there would be no body there, that the concourse would be empty. Didn’t that always happen in the horror movies he loved so much? The body disappears only to come back in the sequel and kill again.

  He did look. The mist was too thick to see that far down. But he could hear the yells, the shouts, as people were gathering there. More people were coming out on to their balconies.