The Traitors Read online

  Tom Becker studied history at Jesus College, Oxford. He won the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize for his first novel, Darkside, at the age of 25. He lives in London.

  Other titles by Tom Becker:

  THE DARKSIDE SERIES

  Darkside

  Lifeblood

  Nighttrap

  Timecurse

  Blackjack

  For Damon Jackman and Magda Nakassis, the most dastardly pair of scoundrels I know

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title page

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  The sirens wailed into life at dusk, as darkness descended over the prison like a denial. In the prisoners’ quarters, a dense jungle of bunk beds and washbasins, the inmates returned their playing cards to the deck and trudged outside. Over in the mess hall, there was a loud clatter as the prisoners on cleaning duty dropped their dirty pots and pans and hurriedly dried their hands. The alarm even reached down beneath the chapel floor, where two boys were painstakingly tunnelling through the ground – nudging each other, they wiped the grime from their faces and began scrabbling back towards the surface. In a matter of minutes, all the inmates had gathered in the exercise yard, shivering in the cold as they waited for the evening headcount to begin.

  All the inmates bar one.

  In a tower above the guards’ barracks, the Traitor walked up a flight of stone steps; soft, deliberate footfalls untroubled by guilt. There was a crackle of loudspeakers, and then a high-pitched voice rang out above the siren: Attention! One minute until roll call! Any prisoners who fail to present themselves will be subject to one week in the punishment cells! The inmates responded with a rowdy chorus of boos and jeers. The Traitor smiled.

  The stairwell was steep, and coiled like a serpent. The Traitor had spent hours hiding in a disused cellar beneath the guards’ quarters, and it felt good to be moving again. It had taken an age for the siren to announce the roll call, and then for the scrape of chair legs and the thunderous tread of jackboots above the Traitor’s head to mark the guards’ exit from the barracks. Waiting until the coast was clear, the Traitor had crept out of the cellar and moved soundlessly through the empty building. Steam rose from half-drained cups of coffee; books were jammed open on chair arms. A snooker table had been abandoned mid-game, leaving balls strewn across the scuffed green baize.

  At the tower’s summit, the staircase came to an abrupt end at a door. The Traitor knocked twice, and entered a study dominated by a burnished desk and a phalanx of pockmarked metal filing cabinets. A couple of dusty books lay supine on a shelf on the far wall. The air was filled with smoke, the atmosphere heavy with the burden of countless cigarettes.

  Mr Pitt stood stiffly by the window, his back as straight as a baton. The Traitor was aware how scared the other inmates were of this man – how Mr Pitt strode, bloody-knuckled, through their dreams. The Traitor wasn’t scared of him, though. The Traitor wasn’t scared of anything.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Mr Pitt didn’t turn around. “Who am I?” he asked finally.

  The Traitor paused, taken aback by the question. “You’re Mr Pitt, sir. The Assistant Chief Warder.”

  Mr Pitt nodded. “I thought that once, too.” He removed a monocle from his eye and gave it a thorough wipe in a white handkerchief, still staring out of the window. The distant bark of the guards carried up to the study as they herded the prisoners into formation in the exercise yard. “But, as the years have gone by, as the centuries have amassed out here in no-time, I have realized that my official rank is meaningless. I am not the Assistant Chief Warder. I am not a prison officer of any stripe or description. I am a zookeeper. Overseeing a menagerie of rats.” He spat out the word as though it had curdled in his mouth, before continuing calmly: “Now, in all civilized cultures, rats are considered a pestilent menace to decent human society, and are exterminated – snared in traps, or torn apart by dogs. But not on the Dial. Here you are free to live, to run around, to fill your little faces with food. My one comfort is that you do not breed.”

  Sensing that now was not the time to interrupt, the Traitor stayed silent as Mr Pitt turned away from the window, stalked over to one of the filing cabinets and selected a bulging brown file from the top drawer. He flicked through the pages, a look of disgust on his face.

  “I’ve been looking over your case,” he said, “and you are without doubt one of slipperiest specimens I’ve had the misfortune to come across. You’d sell out your own mother for a handful of loose change. Ordinarily, I’d take great delight in making you suffer here for a few centuries, but you have been fortunate enough to catch me at a time when I have lost patience with this entire process.” Mr Pitt snapped the folder shut. “In short: I am willing to offer you a deal.”

  The Traitor tried not to look surprised. “What kind of deal?”

  “I’ve know how the rats pass their time here,” Mr Pitt replied. “Sniffing around nooks and crannies looking for a way out, burrowing little tunnels underground. Praying that one day they’ll be able to get back through the warp-hole to their homes. I know that the Tally-Ho are planning something big – I want you to tell me how, and when, they’re looking to make a run for it. Is that information you could obtain for me?”

  The Traitor nodded slowly. “There’s usually someone who’ll talk – as long as you know the right way to ask them. But it’s risky. Ever since Luca betrayed them, the Tally-Ho have been on the lookout for anyone who might be a rat. If they catch me, I’ll be in big trouble.”

  “If they catch you, the Tally-Ho will be the least of your problems,” Mr Pitt retorted. “You make a deal with me, you better hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, sir, believe me. And if I succeed. . .?”

  Mr Pitt opened a carved wooden box on his desk and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. Striking up a match, he lit the cigarette in his mouth, then held the wavering match near the Traitor’s folder.

  “Records can be made to vanish,” he said. “Prisoners can disappear. Unless, of course, you’re happy to spend the next five hundred years here?”

  Mr Pitt extinguished the match with a sharp flick of his wrist, and jabbed the blackened stub at the Traitor.

  “You understand that no one can know about this? If anyone gets so much of a sniff of this conversation, it will be very bad news for you. A single loose word, and I will have a long time to make you regret it. Do I make myself clear?”

 
“Absolutely,” replied the Traitor, with the faintest trace of a smile. “You can trust me.”

  There was no escape for him in dreams.

  For three nights Adam Wilson had been stalking sleep like a hunter through the undergrowth. He lay in ambush, eyes clamped shut, trying to tempt it closer with a selection of boring thoughts: his dad’s fishing stories; the rules of cricket; all the words he could think of beginning with the letter Q. But no matter how much Adam shifted underneath the covers, or how carefully he rearranged his pillows, he couldn’t get comfortable. He got up and crept through his dark, silent house to pour himself a glass of water in the kitchen, only to steal across the landing an hour later to use the toilet. He turned on the light and read chapters from his favourite book until his tired eyes could no longer grip on to the page. Still the clock on his wall ticked relentlessly onwards: 1.15; 2.45; 4.30. . .

  With a sigh, Adam reached over to his bedside table and turned on his radio. The station was playing slow love songs, presumably to relax all the other listeners who were lying awake out there. In between the music, the DJ whispered heartbroken confessions as though they were lullabies.

  As the songs merged into a soft purr, Adam finally felt the tension in his limbs begin to ease. He was drifting into unconsciousness when the speakers gave out a sudden violent crackle. Loud static drowned out the music, as though someone had sharply twisted the tuning dial. Two pips sounded above the static, and then a voice announced:

  “Greetings, traitor.”

  Adam’s eyes snapped open. He glanced at the radio, which had settled back into a dull fizz. It felt like it had been talking to him. He shook his head wearily. The lack of sleep was making him imagine things.

  The radio spat into life again. “This is the Dial calling.”

  He wasn’t imagining things.

  Even though the announcer’s voice was faint, it didn’t endear itself to the listener. It had a childish, nasal tone that gave the impression that the speaker was curling his lip as he talked.

  “Repeat: this is the Dial calling, traitor. We know who you are, Adam Wilson. We know what you’ve done.”

  At the sound of his name, Adam’s heart began pounding. It wasn’t possible. This had to be some sort of bad dream. How could they know his name? How could they know what he’d done?

  Adam scrambled out of bed and stretched his arm down the back of his bedside table, yanking the radio’s plug from the socket. As the “on” light died, the nasal voice sent him a parting shot.

  “We’re coming for you, traitor. . .”

  That morning, a letter was waiting for him on the breakfast table.

  Adam didn’t see it as he sat down and blearily reached for the cereal packet. It was only as he was drenching his cornflakes with milk that he noticed the small rectangle propped up against the sugar bowl, his name and address printed neatly on the front. There was no stamp or postmark. Adam couldn’t remember the last time he had received a hand-delivered letter. For some reason, the sudden appearance of one now – after what had happened the night before – troubled him.

  His mum bustled into the kitchen and kissed the top of his head, laughing at his instinctive flinch.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully. “See you’ve found your letter. What’s it about? Your dad and I couldn’t think who on earth it could be from.”

  Adam didn’t reply. He picked up the brown manila envelope with the tips of his fingers, as if fearful that it might explode.

  “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” his mum asked, a curious note in her voice.

  Adam carefully returned the envelope to its post by the sugar bowl and picked up his spoon.

  “Not right now,” he said finally.

  Adam joined the reluctant flow of schoolchildren tramping up the main road, the letter stuffed in the bottom of his bag alongside his textbooks and games kit. He was feeling strangely exposed, as though every wink and nudge, every laugh was aimed at him. Outside his school gates, factions of girls huddled together trading gossip and secrets, while slouching regiments of boys exchanged rapid-fire insults with one another. Usually Adam would hang around with them until the bell rang; today he hurried inside.

  Friday morning meant assembly for Adam’s year – he took a seat at the back of the hall with resignation, well aware what was coming. Sure enough, after a lengthy speech about fulfilling potential, the headmistress’s face became serious.

  “Now, as most of you will be aware, following Tuesday’s unfortunate events, the chemistry lab will be off-limits for at least another week, as we try to repair the damage. The pupil responsible for the destruction, Danny Lyons, has been excluded. There is no place for such behaviour in this school.”

  Adam could feel eyes looking in his direction. There were a few suppressed sniggers. A couple of rows in front of him, Danny’s girlfriend, Carey, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her cheeks reddening. She glanced back over her shoulder towards Adam; he looked quickly down at the floor.

  There was only one topic of conversation as the pupils filed out of the hall.

  “They kicked Danny out? Bit harsh, that.”

  “You reckon? I heard he totally lost it – nearly decked Old Robbo when he tried to stop him smashing up the lab.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “Who knows? It was only a matter of time with Danny. He’s a complete nutter. Remember when he beat up that kid outside the bus station?”

  “Hey!” A hand grabbed Adam’s arm. “You’re Danny’s mate, aren’t you? Have they put him away yet?”

  Adam shook off the hand and ploughed through the crowd, resisting the urge to make a run for it through the school gates. He kept his head down all morning, ignoring the empty seat next to him as he muddled his way through a maze of French verbs, quadratic equations and insect parts. At lunch time, he played football for the first time in years, earning screams of frustration from his teammates as he misplaced passes and mishit shots. On his way back to lessons, he heard Carey call out his name in the busy corridor; Adam hurried into his classroom without looking back.

  The last lesson was PE. After a sodden game of rugby, Adam padded out of the showers into a battlefield of muddy socks, battered kitbags and wet towels. The air in the changing room was a combustible brew of sweat and deodorant. Most of the boys were hurriedly changing to escape school for the day, but Adam dried off and dressed slowly. By the time he was finished, the last bell had long since rung, and the only sound in the empty changing room was a drip echoing off the shower walls. As he crammed his kit back into his school bag, Adam saw the letter still waiting patiently for him. He pulled it out and sat down on the wooden bench.

  His hands trembling slightly, Adam peeled open the envelope. There was a single crisp sheet of paper inside, stamped with a red crest of a snake entwined around a dagger, the serpent’s forked tongue darting into the air. The lettering was slightly clunky and haphazard, as though it had been composed on an old typewriter rather than a computer. It read:

  Dear Adam Wilson,

  Agents from the Dial are on their way to collect you. Make your farewells now, as you will not be seeing anyone you care about for a long time. Such are the consequences of treachery.

  If you feel you are being unjustly treated, show someone this letter – a family member, perhaps, or a figure of authority. Tell them that you are innocent, and that you deserve their assistance.

  But you won’t tell anyone, will you? You’re too guilty and ashamed. We know it and we’re coming for you.

  Regards,

  Mr Cooper

  (CHIEF WARDER, THE DIAL)

  Adam scanned the letter again, convinced that he had misread it. He noticed with a chill that it mentioned “the Dial” – just like the radio message had the previous night. It was clearly a threat. Maybe the best thing to do was to follow the letter’s sugges
tion and show it to his mum and dad. They’d find out who this Mr Cooper was and stop him. If they had to, Adam knew, they would take the letter to the police. They’d do everything they could to sort things out.

  But instead of showing his parents the letter, Adam ripped it up into tiny pieces and, on his way home, scattered them over the patch of scrubby wasteland behind his house, like the ashes of some little-lamented family pet.

  Adam kept the radio switched off that night. In the silence, his bedroom felt as though it was under siege: creaks on the stairs threatened the nearing tread of intruders, while the tap of tree branches on the window sounded like animals’ claws. Sometime after midnight, Adam could have sworn that he heard someone outside shout his name. He raced over to the window and tore open the curtains, but there was no one standing in the street below. Eventually, overwhelmed by exhaustion, Adam slumped into a dreamless sleep.

  He slept in late the next morning, grateful that it was the weekend. Eventually he crawled out of bed and into the bathroom, where he glumly inspected the bags beneath his eyes in the mirror. After a shower, Adam surprised his parents by volunteering to go into town with them. Usually he avoided shopping trips like the plague, but the truth was that he was too jumpy to sit in the house alone. His mum gave him a thoughtful look but didn’t say anything.

  The town centre was quiet. Adam lived in a seaside resort that was sliding into disrepair, haunted by the absence of crowds on the promenade and the echoes of decades-old laughter. With summer long since faded away, the tourist shops were boarded up, and the machines in the amusement arcades bleeped and fizzed with lonely desperation. The cries of the seagulls sounded like taunts as they wheeled through the air above their heads.

  For once, Adam was pleased to have his parents for company. While absent-mindedly accepting a flyer from a man standing on the corner of the high street, he even agreed to his mum’s suggestion that they go clothes shopping. He tried on a few shirts, and didn’t argue when she chose to buy the one he least liked. As his mum chatted to the sales assistant and paid for the shirt, Adam retrieved the crumpled flyer from his pocket. It was a plain piece of card with a short message written in a familiar typeface: