Bryant & May and the Burning Man by Christopher Fowler

Author:Christopher Fowler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

Day four, victim four.

It wasn’t very hard to make. A mixture of saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur, one to oxidise, two to provide the propellant. The main problem was its slow decomposition rate, which meant that unless it was placed under pressure, or in some kind of tube or box, it would simply burn out.

It was granulated, but sensitive to changes in the weather, so the timings were hard to predict. He wasn’t a scientist but had been able to find everything he needed online, and the instructions were simple. He had allowed for a total of seven deaths, which was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Hell, seven cyclists had been killed in the last two weeks on London’s roads, and that had changed nothing.

At the outset of his plan, the riots were simply fortuitous. Now he saw that the deaths could propel events. They could really count for something. So far the press had been silent. Well, he would change all that.

He arrived back at the flat and let himself in. The hall was poorly lit and smelled of vegetable stew. The landlady heard him on the stair and popped out of her room as if on a spring, something she did with the regularity of a Bavarian barometer. ‘So you’re back, Mr Flannery. Because I wondered when you’d be in.’

‘Well, I was out looking for work, Mrs Demitriou,’ he explained.

‘Only you still owe me rent, and there are my other tenants to think of.’

He failed to see how his nonpayment of the rent affected anyone else who lived in the house. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s very hard finding work right now, but I’m hoping something will happen by the weekend.’

‘Very well.’ She spoke with an air of exhausted patience. ‘Only if you can’t pay by Sunday, I’m going to have to ask for my keys back. And you know that if I find any damage to the room, I’ll have to charge you extra.’

The old bitch was clearly counting on that. She had seen around the edge of his door and noted the charts and clippings he had pinned up everywhere. Not that she had a hope in hell of finding another lodger to take the room, because there was a palpable smell of damp, the boiler didn’t work properly, the sink leaked and there was a great brown stain spreading over the ceiling like a shadow on a smoker’s lung.

‘Oh, there’s a package for you. Mr Demitriou took it in but he can’t be the concierge, not with his back. So just this once, then, yes?’ She indicated a brown cardboard box on the floor.

‘Thank you.’ He collected the box, which was surprisingly heavy, and headed for his room.

He had no money left for food now. He raided the Demitrious’ kitchen when they were watching TV and ate out-of-date sandwiches he found in shop bins. There were always plenty to be found behind the takeouts in the Square Mile. He was used to being hungry. It didn’t bother him.

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