Marcus did tell his mother about the body in the garage at Tom’s, and she decided he wouldn’t play there anymore. He was just getting tired of thinking up excuses when his grandfather introduced him to a new boy, a boy who didn’t go to his school, a boy who came to visit with his grandfather’s accountant, a boy who was easily led, a boy called Vinnie Whitney-Ross.
To start with, Marcus thought Vinnie was a bit of a softie. It seemed that the boy could read proper books, all by himself. That impressed Marcus, but he decided not to show it. When they played games, like running races, he won and that was what mattered. Vinnie was funny and clever and liked listening to his stories. He knew an awful lot about dinosaurs, and that meant they could play at being Diplodocus and T-rex on the lawn.
Once or twice he considered telling his friend about the time in the garage and the man on the floor, but he wasn’t sure how Vinnie would react. Something told him that Vinnie wasn’t fascinated by dead bodies, and he might decide not to come back.
The years flew by and Marcus grew more and more confident. No one questioned him when he ordered the servants around or reprimanded them, and even the teachers at school seemed a bit scared of him. He became aware that being ‘Norman Lane’s son’ had advantages, and he used them to the hilt. Vinnie was a willing subject, and Marcus enjoying teaching him how to steal and how to tell when people were lying.
When he was ten he changed schools to Priory College Junior School, the feeder for the public school where he would spend his senior years. It was full of gullible, spoiled boys from wealthy backgrounds who were eager to show how grown-up they were, and it made for rich pickings for an articulate, manipulative boy like Marcus. Within days he had a group of acolytes who hung off his every word and delighted in bullying anyone who appeared weak.
During that summer his grandfather called him into the great big library. ‘I have some news that might make you sad. Bert Whitney-Ross has shot himself. So Vinnie won’t be coming to play anymore.’
Marcus hardly blinked, so used to hiding his emotions had he become. ‘Vinnie has something of mine, something I want back. I can sell it.’
His grandfather looked surprised. ‘What is it?’
‘A collection of cigarette cards.’
‘Is it yours to sell?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘It is now.’
‘Why does Vinnie have it?’
‘In case someone wanted to search for it and found it in my locker. He’s looking after it for me.’
Tobias smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay you for it. How much do you want?’
‘Some of the cards are hard to find. I think £200 sounds fair.’
Tobias was obviously surprised again. ‘Do you? I think £150 sounds generous. Now, run along and scam someone else.’
Later, Marcus went down to the garden and ripped the heads off all the carnations. Then he sat down on the lawn and cried with frustration. He knew crying was weak, but that strange emotion of missing Vinnie, the feeling he was so used to between visits, now seemed overwhelming. After a few moments he wiped his eyes and ran to the end of the lake where the net lay waiting. He played duckling racing by himself, as he considered how he would have liked to tell Vinnie that a gunshot was a noble way to die.
While Marcus’s natural leadership skills made him popular at Priory College, his thinly veiled temper got him into trouble. He played rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer, and took great pride in wearing the purple house colours of Mortimer on his school tie. As he matured, the lesson about actions and consequences was reinforced: if you didn’t commit the action, you weren’t held responsible for the consequence. This seemed like a tremendous stroke of luck, so he found less intelligent boys who would take care of the physical side of discipline and punishment for him.
He styled his gang on the Italian mafia, and gave each boy a codename. He was ‘Mario’ and his compatriots were ‘Luigi’, ‘Carlo’, ‘Vincenzo’, ‘Roberto’ and ‘Paulo’. He gleaned information from many sources and put it into action: homemade gunpowder led to homemade fireworks that flew higher than any shop-bought ones, and he even made a brief, if unsuccessful, foray into homemade napalm. But his most creative and popular invention was the matchbox bomb.
‘How many should we use as flints?’ The boys were staring at the contents of a matchbox, laid out on the table.
‘Half and half,’ Marcus replied.
They watched with quiet fascination as he prepared the matches and packed them back into the box, then wrapped it tightly in foil.
‘Now what?’
Marcus smiled at the boy who had dared to ask the question.
‘Now you get to try it out.’
The first one failed to ignite, so he packed it more snuggly and bound it into a hard silver ball. This time the elected perpetrator threw it into a wastepaper bin in the school playground and the explosion was immediate and dramatic.
Eventually, Marcus came to the attention of the Order of Bacchus, an association of senior boys who took their drinking seriously. They met fortnightly in a locked common room, and he knew the invitation to attend was a rare honour for a fourteen-year-old. The boy leading him there knocked on the door with a complicated sequence of rhythms.
‘Enter.’ The voice from inside was clear and strong. Marcus recognised it instantly but said nothing. The boy took a key from his blazer pocket and unlocked the door.
The room was bare, apart from five large chairs at one end. Each chair was occupied by a senior pupil dressed only in a toga made out of a white bed sheet, and each had a garland of plastic grapes and leaves on his head. Marcus’s first reaction was to laugh out loud, but he knew that would be suicide.
‘Name?’ It was the same voice – the sports star of the senior year.
‘Marcus Lane.’
‘Age?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Form Four. You’re advanced for your age.’
Marcus always listened to his instinct, and this time his instinct was to keep quiet unless he was asked a direct question.
The boy to the left of the one speaking pointed at him. ‘I hear you have a gang of thugs who follow your orders. Is this true?’ he asked.
‘I … can persuade my fellow pupils to do what I ask them to do.’
All the boys smirked at him.
‘So, if we wanted some enforcers to help with the initiation ceremony, you could help us?’ asked the leader.
Marcus thought for a moment: be brave or be sensible? ‘What’s in it for me?’ he asked.
The leader smiled and looked at the floor. ‘What’s your father’s name, Lane?’
‘Norman Lane.’
‘And your grandfather is Tobias Lane.’
It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer it.
‘We help our initiates to experience the pleasures of the drunken state. Sometimes they want to stop before we want them to stop, and it would be useful to have boys to … help them to continue. Do you understand?’
Oh yes, Marcus thought to himself. I understand perfectly. You want some of my gang of thugs to hold down new members and pour alcohol down their throats until they can’t hold any more.
‘Yes,’ he said. Better to keep things simple at this stage.
‘Do you drink, Lane?’
He frowned. ‘Not often. I find being drunk diminishes my power over others.’
They all smirked again.
‘Bright lad. We’ll pay you £10 every time we use one of your boys.’
Marcus frowned again. Be brave.
‘I need to pay them, and there is some danger involved. If they get caught they risk expulsion, not you. Make it £15 and you have a deal.’
There was a moment’s silence, and he began to contemplate how difficult these seniors could make his life. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the boy in the middle to make up his mind. He studied Marcus.
‘Takes balls to drive a bargain with me. I like that. Fifteen quid it is. But I want your best muscle – strong and dumb. Understood?’
Marcus smiled at him. ‘Perfectly.’
‘You can go now.’
He nodded, turned on his heel and left the room. As he walked up the corridor, Marcus thought about how long it would be before he sat in a position like that, a senior, an intimidator, an enforcer. He knew he was already feared and respected, and he took great pleasure in living up to his brutal reputation, but age would enhance that. Three more years and he would be the king of this place. The thought gave him deep satisfaction.
The winter Marcus turned sixteen, his life changed in a few moments.
He wasn’t even at home – he was at boarding school – but the reach of family was long. His father and grandfather were sitting together in the drawing room of the Richmond house. It had been a very profitable year and the two men were indulging in a glass of port and a Cuban cigar.
‘I think it’s time Marcus left that school and joined the family,’ Norman said.
Tobias frowned and took a gulp of port before he answered. ‘You know Melissa’s very keen for him to get good qualifications, maybe even go to university –’
Norman snorted with barely concealed disgust. ‘What on earth for? By sixteen I was earning money from my own patch.’
‘He’s bright, he enjoys learning.’
‘She’s always pampered him and Millie. No, I think that’s completely unnecessary.’
Norman wanted to tell Tobias to keep his thoughts to himself, but his father was one of only two people who could make him hold his temper in check, and Melissa had counselled him against upsetting Tobias.
His father didn’t answer; instead, he put his glass down on the table at his elbow.
Norman glanced at him. ‘Are you feeling okay, Dad?’ he asked.
Tobias seemed to stare at the rug for a moment, then pulled himself to his feet. His face was turning grey and a light sheen of sweat had appeared out of nowhere.
He held out a hand towards his son. ‘No … I … have –’ Suddenly he clasped at his chest and his knees buckled. He slumped slowly to the floor and onto his side. Norman gripped a shoulder and rolled Tobias onto his back. Then he sat down again. His father was opening and closing his mouth, but no sound emerged and his eyes were bulging. He continued to clutch at his shirt, but his grasp was weakening.
Norman took a slug from his glass and inhaled his cigar. ‘I want to watch you die,’ he said softly. His eyes never left his father’s face as the life ebbed out of the older man. The process had always delighted him, but never to this extent. No death had ever changed his life the way this one would.
Tobias’s eyes were nearly closed and his breath was nothing more than a gurgling sound.
Norman leaned forward and whispered: ‘I’m going to change everything.’
When it was obvious that his father was dead, Norman got to his feet, bent over and picked up the other man’s wrist. There was no pulse. He walked briskly from the room, calling his mother’s name as he left.
After the funeral, Norman, Melissa, Millie and Marcus moved into the imposing Richmond house, and Tobias’s widow moved into their old home. Melissa fired most of the servants and hired new ones. Norman gave her an open chequebook to redecorate, while he set about modernising the family business. Against Melissa’s wishes, he also decided that it was time Marcus left that ‘damn expensive school’ and learned his trade.
‘But I like school!’
His father glared at him. Norman Lane was a colossal man at over six foot five, lean and muscular, with hands that balled easily into fists. ‘What use is it going to be to you? Damn history and Latin and geomet–’
‘It helps me understand the world, how it works –’
‘Bullshit! You need to learn to shoot well – not for game but at people, with a damn pistol. Learn how to make people obey you, be a leader. Learn not to be impulsive.’
That was rich, coming from his father. There was no sense in resisting, though, Marcus knew that, but somehow he had to have one last go.
‘Can I finish this year?’
‘No! Young Tom McGregor, the boy you went to primary school with? He left school in December and joined us. Dan says he’s making excellent progress, and I don’t want you to lag behind. I’m going to put you with Dan and Tom, and you can start shadowing Dan’s clients.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t you dare contradict me!’ his father roared.
Marcus saw the fists clench, bit his lower lip and said nothing more. Dan had been his grandfather’s second-in-command, and he knew the criminal underworld, from every disused warehouse to every crooked landlord. He would be a hard taskmaster but, if you planned a life of crime, there could be no better teacher. Accept the inevitable, that had been his mother’s advice, and he had to admit that the idea of firing a gun at real people was just a little bit more exciting than watching thugs kick the crap out of younger boys.