I arrived home with a few hours left before sundown, and I set about my grim work. First was the plate carrier. I took out the heavy lead plates and replaced them with the Tank Beetle's carapace. They fit almost perfectly. I had to stuff some wadding down the side of the pouches to stop the plates from shifting about, but otherwise, it was perfect. They covered me from my nipples down to just below my belly button, front, back and both sides. I tried the vest on and moved around in it. I felt that what little I'd sacrificed in terms of mobility was definitely worth it for the protective advantage.

  After that, I sat down with the clay ammo I'd been given for the Wrist Rocket. I held them up to the light and squeezed them. They had some give, and I knew they would probably explode on impact, which is what I wanted. Now, it was just a matter of whether I could craft the Rune onto them successfully. Fishing around in my old school bag, I found a compass that I'd never really figured out how to use properly, but for what I needed today, it would be perfect.

  I sat down at my desk and began to carefully carve the Rune for explosion into them. It was a tiring process, requiring such fine motor skills and concentration to keep the image of the explosion in my mind. After about 30 minutes, my neck and back ached, my eyes felt sore, and my head was beginning to hurt again. I was feeling the familiar tinges of exhaustion. I didn't know where this magic came from, but I was certain it sapped away my life force, and the more I used it day after day, the quicker I became exhausted. After half an hour, I'd only managed to craft about 10, but that would do.

  I also wanted to try out the shock Runes and see if I could make pellets that could zap, but there was no way I was going to try that today. My hands were shaking as it was, and all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and sleep, but I didn't have time for that. Instead, I took a couple of the unmarked clay balls to the roof and practiced firing the Wrist Rocket. It was super comfortable, and the wrist mount took all the pressure off my hands and fingers, allowing me to pull back the rubber tubing pretty hard. The thing was surprisingly accurate. Once I'd watched a couple of video demonstrations online about the best way to shoot them, I was able to put holes in tin cans from 15 feet. The Wrist Rocket was also small and collapsible, and I tested the leather jacket and found that it could slot right into the inside pocket comfortably. That was handy.

  I loaded the new and improved Bang Rocks into the left side pockets of the leather jacket. Were they still Bang Rocks? They were more like Bang Balls now… no, that sounded weird. I'll stick with Bang Rocks. Then I tended to my Grandad’s bat. It had developed a lot of dents and splinters from use, and I was worried that the only thing holding it together was the protective Runes on the back. I took some heavy-duty tape and began taping up every inch of it I could. I'd chosen black tape to suit the dark avenger of the night motif I was going with, leaving only the Rune exposed and taping everything else, including the handle. I tested it out and was satisfied that it would survive at least another night, but I was going to have to come up with a more permanent solution.

  I set the bat down and looked at my ruined gloves. There was another thing I needed to upgrade, but how, I wasn't sure. It seemed that the copper metal could only conduct a certain amount of energy before it began to warp and melt, and the Runes fell apart. So far, I'd gone through six plates, and my great fear was that one day they would fail me while I was out there. They had proven to be my most valuable weapon in neutralizing enemies quickly. The gloves were still holding together, but not by much. The ruined right glove was almost falling apart now, and I was going to have to tape it to keep it on my hand. That was probably a problem I could deal with tomorrow.

  Maybe I could go back to Jed and pawn some more of the jewelry, but even though I knew Jed was the last person to ask questions, especially in his line of work, I didn't want to raise too much suspicion by turning up again and again with bags of jewelry. I then thought about the drug dealer money in the carrier bag. There had to be thousands of pounds in there. Maybe I should take some of that and go buy myself some inventory. No, that wasn't an option. Grandad always warned me about slippery slopes, and this felt like one of them. Right now, I'd be buying what I absolutely needed, but how long before I started robbing drug dealers for the money rather than to bring them to justice? That wasn't a question I ever wanted to have to ask myself, so I pushed the carrier bag of money out of my mind and looked out the window. The sun was beginning to set.

  It was time. I pulled on my heavy black combat trousers, tightened the belt, and then pulled on my boots, tightening the laces and taping them down so they wouldn't get caught on anything. I found a black T-shirt that wasn't covered in blood and sweat, pulled that on, tucked it into my trousers, and then pulled on the plate vest. I secured and tightened it around my waist, enjoying how snug it fit. Then I pulled on a black hoodie, and next came the balaclava. It was definitely an upgrade from the scarf. I felt much more secure that it wouldn’t be ripped off mid fight and I could breathe better.

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  Finally came the leather jacket. I had wanted to put some protective enchantments on the jacket itself, but I hadn't had the time or energy, so I just had to hope that tonight that I wouldn't get stabbed. I pulled the jacket on, flexed a bit, testing my mobility. The jacket had that wonderful old leather smell to it. It didn't squeak at all. It was worn in a few places, but that just made movement easier. I tucked the Wrist Rocket into the inside pocket, checked the Bang Rocks, and then put a couple of the finished Chalk Bombs into the other side. Finally, I pulled on my gloves. The left glove was still in relatively good condition, but I had to take the heavy duty tape and tape the right glove to my wrist and around my fingers to ensure it didn't fall off or fall to pieces. Finally, I threw Grandad's bat and its makeshift holster over my shoulder, tightened it until it was comfortable, and then moved around a bit, breathing deeply.

  Then I saw myself in the mirror. I wanted to think that I looked badass, like one of those comic book vigilantes, but with my hood pulled up and the balaclava covering my face, all dressed in black, I just looked scary. I didn't look like me. Jed's words floated back to me: half demon, half human. Is that what I was becoming? I put the thought out of my mind. It wasn't time for doubts. It was time for action.

  But I couldn't help thinking, what would Grandad say if he saw me walking down the street? Would he think I was some force for good or would he cross the road and keep his eyes down? Grandad had always been a good man, a simple man. He believed that good people did good all the time and that even bad people were capable of doing good sometimes. He'd been a soldier; he'd fought in the war, and he always told me that violence wasn't a solution. Violence wasn't even a means to reach a solution; violence was just a thing that happened when people thought they couldn't talk anymore.

  He never spoke too much about what happened in the war, but I'd always got the feeling he wasn't particularly proud of his time on the front. His medals were the first thing he sold when we needed money, and he never made any effort to go and get them back. And here I was, fighting my own personal war for the Mulberry Estate, but I hadn't tried talking to anybody. I hadn't tried finding another means. Violence wasn't the final resort; it had been the first.

  I thought about Grandad's picture again, and I thought about when was the last time I'd actually gone and spoken to him, when I'd actually sat there and thought about him the way he was. It felt so long ago now, so many battles, so much blood, so much violence. But I couldn't, I didn't want him to know that this is what happened to his grandson. I knew that he taught me better, and a strong part of me knew he wouldn't be proud of what I was doing.

  I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and instead of thinking of Grandad as he was, I thought about him in that hospital room hooked up to all those tubes, the doctors talking about operations that they knew we couldn't afford. I thought about carrying him back into the flat and how, in his final weeks, he had become trapped in this pokey little two-bedroom hole. How he could barely walk to the toilet, about the times I'd had to help him up off the floor because he'd fallen. How tears had filled his eyes when I had to clean him after he soiled himself.

  My Grandad had been a proud man who had never asked for a thing from anyone and even though we never spoke about it, I knew shame was what finally finished him. The shame of feeling like a burden. The anger was so visceral that it shook me. My body quivered with the rage of it. I thought about how my Grandad, a strong man, a soldier, a caregiver, had been turned into a frail, scared old shut-in, unable to even go to the toilet or feed himself properly.

  And I thought about how I'd been forced to leave school and go get a job and become his full-time carer when I was only 17. I'd never been out partying, I'd never really had friends, I didn't do anything that a normal teenager should have done. Instead, I was working, cooking, cleaning, and caring for an old man who had raised me because my own parents didn't care. I clenched my jaw harder until I heard enamel crack. I thought about Mark on his knees, tears rolling down his face as his life’s work burned in front of him because some thugs thought he had dared to speak out and do the right thing. I thought about old Missus Paxman beaten to a pulp because she stood up and spoke against those thugs.

  I thought about all the times that I'd walked through the estate and been slapped around and robbed. I thought about the time that they'd taken my ripped-up shoes and thrown them in the river and made me walk home in my socks. I thought about Marilyn and the bruise marks on her throat. And there it was… righteous fury. That was all the energy I needed, that was all the motivation I needed, that was all the justification I needed. I walked towards my window, pushed it open, stepped out onto the fire escape, and went prowling in the night to hand out justice.

  Bloody, violent, righteous justice.