iBoy

into my bank account on the thirty-first of March.' She glared at me. 'Do you know anything about it?'

'Me?' I said, feigning surprise and indignation, while at the same time mentally kicking myself for forgetting all about it. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I'm talking about this,' she said, passing me the state­ment and pointing out the deposit. 'Look ... see? Someone's put fifteen thousand pounds into my account.'

I smiled at her. 'Well, that's good, isn't it?'

She glared at me again. 'Not if I don't know who it's from or what it's for.'

I shrugged. 'Does it matter? I mean, money's money —'

'Yes, Tommy. It matters.'

I looked at the bank statement. 'Maybe it's from your publishers,' I suggested. 'A bonus or something ...'

'A bonus?'

I shrugged again. 'I don't know, do I?'

'It's not from my publishers, I've already checked. And the bank can't tell me who it's from either.' She looked at me. 'Are you sure you don't know anything about it?'

'Why would I?'

Gram hesitated.

'What?' I asked her.

She looked me in the eye. 'You'd tell me if you were in any trouble, wouldn't you?'

'Trouble? What kind of trouble?'

She shook her head. 'Look, I know how hard it is ... around here, I mean. It's so easy to get mixed up with the wrong kind of people —'

'Gram,' 1 said, genuinely confused. 'I really don't know what you're talking about.'

She reached across and put her hand on mine. 'Just tell me the truth, Tommy. Did you get that money from somewhere and put it into my account?'

I shook my head. 'Where would I get that kind of money from?'

'Where does anyone get that kind of money from in Crow Town?'

I stared at her. 'You think I'm selling drugs?'

She shrugged, 'I'm just asking —'

'Christ, Gram,' I said angrily. 'You really think I'd do that?'

'So, you're not?'

'No,' I sighed, 'I'm not.'

'And you're not thieving or anything either?'

I sighed again. 'How can you even think anything like that?'

'I'm sorry, Tommy,' she said. 'But it happens ... it can happen to anyone. Even someone like you. I mean, I know that you're a really good person, a really decent person, and I know that you love me ... but I also know that because you love me, you'd do almost anything to help me. And if you knew that I was in financial difficul­ties ... well, you might do the wrong thing to help me. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Yeah ... yeah, of course I understand. But I haven't done anything wrong.'

Gram looked at me, nodding her head, then she picked up some letters from the table. 'This,' she said, showing me one of the letters, 'this is confirmation that my council tax arrears have been paid off.' She put down the letter and showed me another one. 'And this is a statement showing that I'm all up to date on the rent payments.' She looked at me. 'Did you know I owed all this money?'

'No,' I lied.

'Did you pay these bills?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

I nodded.

Gram sighed. 'Well, someone did, and it wasn't me.'

I couldn't think of anything to say then, so I just sat there, trying to look innocent.

Gram sat there in silence for a while too, just looking at the letters, occasionally shaking her head ... and then, eventually, she said to me, 'Look, Tommy, I'm sorry if I've upset you or offended you or anything, but I had to ask. It's not that I don't trust you, because I do. And even if you were mixed up in something illegal, I'd still love you.' She smiled at me. 'And, besides, you have been acting a bit strangely recently.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you're either in your room all day, doing God knows what, or you're out all the time ... especially at night. And you seem so preoccupied, so worried about things, and you look really tired —'

'I've been studying.'

'Studying?'

I nodded. 'In my room ... at the library. I've missed a lot of school, so I thought I'd try to catch up a bit on my own.'

Gram frowned at me. 'Really?'

'Yeah ... what's the matter? Don't you believe me?'

'Well, I'm not saying that I don't believe you —'

'Test me.'

'Sorry?'

'You can test me. I'll prove to you that I've been study­ing.'

She laughed. 'You don't have to prove anything.'

'No, go on,' I insisted. 'I've been studying British post­war history. Ask me a question.'

'Don't be silly, Tommy. I believe you.'

'Post-war history,' I repeated. '1946 to the present day.'

'I'm not going to —'

'Any question you like.'

'All right,' Gram sighed wearily, if you insist —'

'I do.'

'OK, let me think a minute ...'

While she thought of a question to ask, I went inside my head and opened up Google. I was feeling kind of sick of myself now, wishing that I'd never got into this whole stupid lying thing ... wishing that I could just tell Gram the truth. The whole truth. But I couldn't, could I? How could I tell her the truth? How could I tell her that her grandson wasn't normal any more, that he had extraordinary powers, and that he was using those powers to seek out and punish the world of people who'd beaten and raped Lucy — the world of the O'Neil broth­ers, the world of Paul Adebajo and DeWayne Firman, the world of Jayden Carroll and Yusef Hashim and Carl Patrick ... the world of Howard Ellman.

How could I tell Gram that?

And how could I tell her that her grandson was afraid that he was not only beginning to lose any sense of compassion he may once have had, but also that he was beginning to lose his mind ...?

How could I tell her that?

I couldn't, could I?

I just couldn't.

And I hated myself for that.

'Who was the Prime Minister in 1956?'

I looked at Gram. 'What?'

'You asked me to ask you a question,' she said. 'About post-war history.'

'Oh, right... yeah.'

'That's my question — who was the Prime Minister in 1956?'

I looked inside my head at a website of British Prime Ministers: