Thirteen by Tom Hoyle Page A

wicked Asp. Clever Asp. How you have disappointedus.” He squeezed tighter; Asp found it hard to breathe. “Why? Why? Why? Why?” he repeated. She was desperate for breath now, but dared not reach out to Coron; to push him away would be a terrible thing.
    Still gripping tight—
I need to breathe
, thought Asp—Coron told Cobra and Viper to take hold of her. Then he let go. Asp gulped in wonderful air.
    â€œI want you to help me take Asp up to Dorm Thirteen,” Coron said. “Where she will stay. Permanently.”
    â€œBut . . .”—
NO!
—“You said there would be mercy,” she whispered.
    Coron put his finger to her lips. “Shhh.” He paused. “
God
will show mercy when you meet him.” The hint of a laugh. “And I may offer you mercy too.”
    Asp was dragged through corridors and up flights of stairs by the older two. She cried and begged; she struggled and shook.
    Surely this is not going to happen
, she thought.
    All too soon they arrived at a white door. The number thirteen was painted on it in coarse, blotchy black paint.
    She had never seen inside.
    Coron opened the door.
    It is going to happen
, she realized.
    The square room had no windows and was empty apart from a light sunk into the ceiling. Three small circular grilles were visible on each of the walls.
    She knew what happened in Dorm Thirteen. She had heard from others.
    Asp was thrown in.
Even now
, she thought,
Coron might change his mind
.
    â€œA little mercy,” Coron said, and Asp’s heart leaped. Coron pulled something from behind him, from his belt. “Here—for you.”
    He threw a small gun to the far end of the room, beyond Asp.
    â€œThere is one bullet in the chamber. You may use it. Or you can stay here
permanently
.”
    He shut the door.
Click
. It was locked.
    As Coron, Viper and Cobra walked back down the stairs, they heard beating on the thick door and a faint, dreadful, desperate wail.
    â€œGood,” said Coron. “Now we can turn our attention to Adam.”
    Viper and Cobra nodded and smiled.

17
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, TO TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2013
    Adam knelt by the side of his bed, curtains closed, door locked. Set out in front of him was a gun and £1,000 in notes—the contents of the case taken from the festival.
    The death was imprinted on his every thought, like a water-mark running through everything in the world.
How did I get in this position? (I killed someone.) Why didn’t I drop the knife? (I killed someone.) How will I tell the police? (I killed someone.) How will I tell my parents?
    He poked the gun with his finger as if it was an animal that would bite. Then he picked it up. It was smaller than he imagined, not much more than seven inches by five, and lighter—it weighed about as much as a big block of cheese. It was also colder than he’d expected. Icy cold.
    Now that he had it, he was reluctant to let it go. What if they knew where he lived? He might have to defend himself and his parents. But he had no idea how to use a gun. Did he just pull the trigger? He had heard the expression
safety catch
in films. Would it be loud? He didn’t even know if it was loaded.
    Adam saw the word
Walther
at the bottom of the handle, just below his little finger. It sounded vaguely familiar, probably from a film. Folding his duvet over gun and money, he pulled his laptop across from his desk.
    He typed in some keywords. After a few minutes he understood.
    â€œOh my God,” whispered Adam. It held lots of bullets. In films and songs guns often had glamour, but Adam felt depressed and desperate. His natural inclination was still to tell his parents and go to the police. He had killed in self-defense, surely. Self-defense isn’t murder, is it? He hadn’t really decided to kill. Or had he?
    His mum’s voice came through the door. “Adam, I can see your light on. After the weekend you’ve had you