Chapter 1
The Infamous Two
Chapter 1: The Run
Date: Monday, 1st August 2022
Time: 20:00 – 22:00
The summer evening hung heavy over Birmingham, the air thick with humidity and the distant, low hum of traffic drifting from the main roads. It was exactly eight o’clock when the orange glow of a sodium streetlamp flickered to life, casting long, wavering shadows across the quiet rows of semi‑detached houses in Small Heath. To anyone passing by, number 42 looked like every other home on the street—neat front garden, closed curtains, a bicycle leaning against the gate—but there was a heavy, suffocating silence radiating from behind its front door, a stillness that felt unnatural, as if the very air inside held its breath.
Inside, Ruman Kagami stood motionless in the centre of his bedroom. The room was bathed in a sickly, pulsing red light from the LED strip strung along the skirting board, casting crimson streaks over everything it touched. Blood was everywhere: splattered in dark, sticky patterns across the floral wallpaper his mother had loved, pooling thick and glistening on the duvet cover, soaking into the carpet fibres. On the double bed, the bodies of his parents and two younger siblings lay tangled together, limbs twisted, eyes wide and unblinking, frozen in expressions of pure, uncomprehending terror.
Ruman was fifteen, lean and sharp‑featured, with dark hair that fell over intense, deep‑set eyes. He wore clear plastic gloves and a disposable surgical mask pulled up over his nose and mouth; in his right hand, he loosely gripped a heavy kitchen knife, its blade stained dark almost to the hilt. He didn’t shake, didn’t flinch, didn’t feel the slightest flicker of regret or sorrow. There was only cold, quiet satisfaction in his gaze—the sharp, burning weight that had sat on his chest for as long as he could remember finally lifting, replaced by a strange, hollow clarity.
He spoke aloud, his voice low and steady, sounding almost calm in the stillness, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than the carnage around him.
“Everyone always said this place was warm, full of love and safety. That’s what they tell you a home’s supposed to be, isn’t it? But I’ve known since I was small—since I first understood how they looked at me, how they spoke to me, like I was something broken or wrong—that it was never a home. It was just a cage. And you don’t leave a cage, not really, not properly, without breaking every single lock, every single bar, every single thing that held you inside.”
He took a slow breath, eyes sweeping once over the still figures on the bed, then turned away, stepping carefully around the puddles of blood, his movements precise and practised. He had planned this for months, every step mapped out in his head, every possibility considered. There would be no mistakes, no loose ends.
By 20:45, he was outside. The back garden was overgrown, a small, neglected patch of earth dominated by a gnarled, wilted oak tree that had stood there since before he was born. The sky was darkening, deep purple fading into inky black, the first stars pricking through the haze above the city. Ruman moved with frantic, reckless energy, his breath coming fast but controlled. He had stripped off his bloodied clothes, wrapped them tight in thick black plastic bags, along with the gloves, the knife, and every other trace of what had happened here. He dug deep into the damp, heavy soil beneath the tree, the spade biting into the ground again and again, sweat running down his back under his plain grey t‑shirt. When the hole was deep enough, he dropped the bundle inside, shovelled the earth back over it, and stamped it flat, pressing the soil down hard with the heels of his trainers until it looked as undisturbed as possible.
He stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, chest heaving, staring at the spot. Memories flickered unbidden—himself at seven years old, sitting under this same tree, crying because his father had shouted at him for something he hadn’t done; Veronica Sterling, small and fierce even then, climbing over the fence to sit beside him, sharing her sweets, telling him that one day they’d both get away. They had been friends for as long as either of them could remember, neighbours, classmates, kindred spirits bound together by the quiet misery of their lives. Everyone else saw two ordinary kids, but they had always seen each other—understood the looks in each other’s eyes, the things they never spoke about, the quiet rage and fear that lived inside them both.
“Veronica’s done her part too,” he muttered to himself, wiping dirt from his hands onto his trousers. “I know she has. She’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.”
He went back inside, washed his hands thoroughly, scrubbing at his fingernails until his skin was raw, and changed into a dark red tracksuit with white stripes down the sides—practical, easy to move in, the kind of clothes no one would remember seeing later. He pulled a black balaclava down over his face, leaving only his eyes visible, then pulled the hood of a dark jacket tight over his head, blending into the shadows of the house.
At exactly 21:10, he stepped out of the front door, pulling it closed behind him with a soft, final click. He stood on the pavement for a few seconds, looking back at the dark windows, the house silent and still behind him. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in his chest was gone, replaced by a sharp, wild kind of freedom.
“Finally,” he whispered.
He turned and began to walk, keeping to the edges of the street, head down, moving quickly but casually. He knew exactly where he was going—they had agreed it years ago, back when they were ten and had first started talking seriously about leaving, about making their own way. The meeting place was an underpass near New Street Station, a concrete tunnel beneath the railway lines, quiet, out of the way, somewhere they had hidden a hundred times before when things at home got too bad.
It took him nearly forty minutes to get there. He stuck to side streets and alleyways, avoiding the main roads and the areas he knew were covered by CCTV—around the Bullring shopping centre, along Corporation Street, anywhere there were crowds or cameras. To anyone who glanced his way, he looked like just another teenager out late, nothing to mark him as different, nothing to suggest what he had done or what he was running from. But inside, his heart hammered hard against his ribs, adrenaline singing in his veins, every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge.
He reached the underpass just after 22:00. The air here smelled of damp stone, rainwater, and spray paint; the walls were covered in graffiti, tags and drawings layered over each other like a secret language. It was quiet, only the distant rumble of trains overhead and the faint hum of traffic filtering in from the road above.
He paused just inside the entrance, hands stuffed in his pockets, and waited.
A moment later, a figure stepped out from the deeper shadows at the far end.
Veronica Sterling was fifteen, tall and slender, with long dark hair and sharp, observant eyes that missed nothing. She looked weary now, her hair slightly dishevelled, a dark hoodie pulled over a white top, a pleated skirt flaring around her legs, but there was a hard, unbreakable set to her jaw, a look of fierce, determined strength that Ruman knew better than anyone. They had grown up together, played together, cried together, planned everything together. She knew him better than he knew himself, and he trusted her with his life—more than that, he trusted her with the truth of what they were, what they had become.
She walked towards him, her footsteps silent on the concrete, stopping just a few feet away. Her eyes locked onto his, searching, and for a second, he saw the memory of the little girl who had climbed over his garden fence all those years ago, the one who had held his hand and promised they’d never let anyone hurt them again.
“Ruman,” she said quietly, her voice steady, low, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re here. I was starting to think maybe something had gone wrong.”
He pulled the balaclava off, shoving it into his pocket, and gave her a small, grim nod. “Everything went exactly like we planned. Every single part. I took care of it all—burnt what needed burning, buried the rest. No traces left, nothing that leads back to me. To us.” He paused, studying her face, seeing the tiredness in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, and added, softer now, “Did you… was it hard, Vee?”
She looked away for a second, staring down the length of the dark tunnel, her expression unreadable, then looked back at him. There was no fear in her gaze, no regret—only the same cold resolve that burned inside him.
“The bathtub was the hardest part,” she said, her voice flat, factual, as if she were talking about cleaning the house or doing homework. “My mother… she didn’t go quietly. Screamed, fought back. Kept asking why, like she didn’t know, like she didn’t understand exactly what she’d done to me, every single day for years. It took longer than I thought it would. But I got it done.” She gave a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Her partner was easier, though. He was passed out drunk on the sofa, didn’t even wake up. Never noticed anything unless it involved him, did he?”
Ruman stepped closer, closing the small gap between them, and reached out, squeezing her arm gently, a silent gesture of understanding, of solidarity. “You did what you had to do. Just like I did. Just like we always said we would, remember? Back when we were kids, sitting under your tree, talking about how we’d make it stop one day. We promised each other.”
“I remember,” she said, and for a moment, her hand came up to rest over his, her grip tight, firm. “I remember every word. We said we wouldn’t let anyone ever make us feel small or scared or trapped again. And we didn’t. We didn’t back down.”
“We’re free now, Vee,” Ruman said, his voice rising slightly, filled with a fierce, bright energy. “Really free. No more parents, no more rules, no more being told what to do or who to be. No more living like prisoners in our own houses. It’s just us now. Just you and me.”
Veronica shook her head, pulling away slightly, her eyes darting towards the entrance of the underpass, alert, watchful, always thinking ahead—just as she always had, ever since they were children and she’d been the one to plan their escapes from bullies or angry adults.
“Not yet, Ruman,” she said. “We’re still here. We’re still in Birmingham. And as long as we’re in this city, we aren’t safe. They’ll start looking soon—people will notice they’re gone, neighbours will talk, police will come asking questions. It won’t take long before they connect us to it, if we’re still here.”
Ruman nodded slowly, knowing she was right. He thought back, unbidden, to when they were younger, school days at Ark Victoria Academy. Everyone else had seen them as quiet, ordinary kids—sometimes teased, sometimes ignored. “Teacher’s pet,” people had whispered about Veronica, jealous of her grades, her sharp intelligence. “Weird,” they’d said about him, quiet and withdrawn. But they had always known. They were different. They were two predators in a world that felt full of people who wanted to hurt them or change them or break them. And they had found each other, early on, and never let go.
“Right,” he said. “You’re right. So what now? We leave, obviously. Get as far away from here as we can. But how? We’re fifteen, Vee. Two kids on our own, no bags, no papers… if we try to get on a bus or a train, they’ll stop us. They’ll ask questions. And if they go looking at our houses… if they find anything, figure out what happened…”
“I’ve thought about it,” Veronica said, reaching into the pocket of her jacket and pulling out a thick fold of notes, held together with an elastic band. She waved it slightly, a small, sharp smile touching her lips. “Saved it up for ages—birthday money, odd jobs, things I stole from them when they weren’t looking. Enough to get us moving, at least for a while. But like you said, we can’t just walk up to a ticket office. Too obvious.”
She pointed towards the road visible at the end of the underpass, where the traffic hummed past, and beyond that, towards the shape of New Street Station, lit up bright against the night sky, blue neon glowing above the entrance.
“Look over there,” she said quietly.
Ruman followed her gaze. Near the station’s loading bay, just off Station Street, a large white logistics van was parked, engine idling, exhaust fumes curling into the cool air. Two men stood by the back doors, one signing a clipboard, the other shifting heavy wooden pallets, talking loudly over the noise of the engine.
“…straight run tonight,” the driver was saying, voice carrying clearly across the quiet street. “Don’t care if the roads are busy or whatever, I’m getting this load out. Been stuck here long enough.”
Ruman frowned, looking at Veronica, seeing the way her eyes were fixed on the van, calculating, working things out just like she always did.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
She nodded, the smile growing, sharp and dangerous. “We slip in the back while they’re distracted. Hide among the crates. They won’t check, not properly—they’re in a rush, they don’t care what’s inside as long as it gets where it’s going. It’s the only way to get out of Birmingham without being seen, without anyone stopping us. Once we’re inside, we just have to stay quiet until we’re far enough away that no one can find us.”
Ruman looked at the van again, then back at her. He felt that familiar surge of certainty—this was right, this was what they had been working towards, everything leading here. Since they were small, they had dreamed of this moment: leaving everything behind, escaping the city that had felt like a cage their whole lives, going somewhere new, somewhere they could be exactly who they were.
“Alright,” he said, pulling his hood back up, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Let’s do it. Together, yeah? Just like always.”
“Together,” Veronica agreed, pulling her own hood tight, her hand slipping easily into his, fingers lacing together like they had done a thousand times before, since they were children running away from things that scared them. “Just you and me, Ruman. The Infamous Two. And nothing’s ever going to trap us again.”
They moved quickly, slipping out of the underpass and staying close to the walls, keeping to the shadows, moving silently towards the loading bay. The two men were still arguing, focused entirely on their work, their backs turned. With a quick glance at each other, they darted forward, slipping through the gap between the open rear doors and the side of the van, disappearing into the dark interior before anyone noticed.
Inside, it was cool and smelled of cardboard, dust, and diesel. It was packed tight with crates and boxes, stacked high to the roof, but there was a narrow gap at the very back, a small hollow space between two large wooden containers, just big enough for them both to squeeze into side by side. They edged their way in, shoulders touching, knees pulled up to their chests, and sat perfectly still, barely breathing.
Seconds later, the heavy steel doors slammed shut, plunging them into total darkness. The lock clicked into place, solid and final. The engine roared louder, vibrating through the metal floor beneath them, and with a jolt that rattled every box inside, the van began to move, pulling away from the kerb and out onto the road, heading away from the station, away from the centre, away from everything they had ever known.
Ruman reached out in the dark, finding Veronica’s hand again, her grip strong and unyielding around his. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the engine, the rumble of the wheels over the uneven Birmingham roads, and felt lighter than he ever had in his life.
The nightmares are behind us now, he thought, the words clear and sure in his head. Every bad thing, every pain, every fear—all left back there, buried or broken or gone. We’re leaving this city. We’re finally free.
He leaned his head back against the crate beside him, and in the dark, he smiled.
This was only the beginning.
END OF CHAPTER 1
