Bloody Horowitz (3 page)

Henry went straight back to his room, sat down and composed a letter, writing with a pen that kept leaking ink, in jagged handwriting that lay on the page like dead spiders.

It took three weeks for Henry to receive a reply, and when it came, it wasn't from Darren Shan at all. It was from someone called Fenella Jones who worked at the publishing house. It read:
And that was it. No apology. No explanation. No promise of money. Just a few lines dismissing him as if he would simply crawl away and forget the whole thing.

Over the next six months, Henry wrote nine more letters, and when
The Vampire's Assistant,
the second book in the series, was published and was even more successful than the first, he wrote eleven more. He got no reply to any of them. It seemed that Darren Shan and his publishers had decided to pretend he didn't exist.

As The Saga of Darren Shan grew and became ever more popular, Henry bought all the books and went through them, not once but several times, making notes in a pile of notebooks that he kept by his bed. Of course, it was easy enough to convince himself that certain words and phrases had been copied from him, and even when the saga went off in a completely different direction from his own
Ring of Evil,
he was able to convince himself that Shan had changed his plans because he was afraid of being sued. Or maybe he was stealing his ideas now from somebody else.

At the same time, Henry began to collect as much information as he could about Darren Shan. He learned that the writer was surprisingly young and lived in Ireland. He cut out pictures of him from newspapers. Shan was short and stocky with a face that was as round as a pumpkin and closely cut hair. Henry thought he looked more like a soccer player than a professional author. It seemed he had once worked as a teacher. He visited Shan's website and began to follow his progress through Britain and around the world. It soon became clear that there wasn't a country on the planet where the books weren't doing well. And all the time he could feel a jealousy, like a cancer, creeping through him.
Cirque du Freak
was
his
book. It was
his
idea. He should have been the one enjoying the fame, the wealth, the jet-setting life.

Henry would never be able to remember the exact moment that he decided to murder Darren Shan. It wasn't an idea that simply arrived, a sudden inspiration. It was more like a growing awareness that murder was the only answer. He wanted to punish the successful writer. But more than that, he needed to get rid of him, to stop him from existing. As far as he could see, it was the only way to allow his own life to continue. Without Shan, there would be no more
Cirque du Freak.
And then, just possibly, there might be room for
Ring of Evil.
But the truth was, Henry no longer cared if his own novel was published or not. He had fallen into a quicksand of hatred and despair. He wanted to lash out one last time before he was sucked under completely.

But how to do it?

Shan made occasional appearances in London, where he would sign books for long lines of his devoted readers. It would be easy enough to join the line with some sharp implement concealed beneath his jacket. That would be appropriate. There was plenty of blood in Shan's books already. Henry would add a few pints more.

But despite everything, he didn't want to go to prison. It wouldn't be fair. After all, he was the victim here and he would only be giving Shan what he deserved. And he certainly didn't want to spend the rest of his life surrounded by common criminals. Henry thought about it and decided. He was an artist. He would use his talents to commit the perfect murder. And one day, maybe, he would write about it. Yes. He would have to change a few names and places, but killing Darren Shan might actually make a good subject for a book.

It wasn't going to be easy. Henry had to kill someone he had never met before and probably never would meet. He had to do it from a distance. Almost at once an idea began to take shape in his mind.

Like many successful authors, Shan received fan letters and mentioned on his website that he tried to reply to as many as possible. Henry had already written to him once and had received a reply from some editorial assistant. But suppose he were to write again, pretending to be a twelve-year-old boy? Shan would have to write back. And that would be it. It would be easy. Nobody would ever be able to pin anything on him.

The very next day, Henry stole a pair of rubber gloves from work—the sort used to protect workers' hands from dangerous chemicals. He would need them to make sure he didn't leave any fingerprints. He bought a cheap pen and some writing paper—choosing a common brand. Then he sat down and composed his letter.

Dear Mr. Shan,
he began. He was careful to disguise his writing. He used large, looping letters to make it look as if the letter had been written by a young boy.

He misspelled
brilliant
on purpose. He was meant to be a schoolboy.

 

The fake name was based on the character Steve Leopard that he had read in Shan's book. He was particularly pleased with the lie about being in a hospital. It made it doubly certain that he would get a response. But the most briliant—or
brilliant
—part came next. With his work in the Shoreditch warehouse, Henry regularly came into contact with poisons and dangerous chemicals. It wasn't all that difficult to steal a small vial of liquid that was colorless, odorless and totally lethal. He mixed this with glue, then, using a paintbrush, applied it to the inside flap of an envelope that he addressed to Steve Lyons at a false address in Brighton.

The trap was simple. Shan would read the letter asking for his autograph. He would sign his name on a card and slip it into the stamped, addressed envelope. And when he licked it, he would seal his fate. Henry reckoned he would be dead before he reached the nearest mailbox, and with a bit of luck the police wouldn't even be able to work out how the poison had been administered.

Finally, just to be on the safe side, Henry took a train to Brighton and mailed the deadly letter from there. With no fingerprints, a false name and no giveaway postmark on the stamp, he was confident that nobody would ever trace the letter back to him.

He sat back and waited. The next few days passed with a sense of continual excitement . . . almost, in fact, like reading a good book. Every evening he hurried home to his single room to catch the six o'clock news on his television, the picture flickering each time a train went past. He couldn't wait to hear it . . . “And after the break, the children's author who took a tumble. Darren Shan's painful end . . .”

But in fact it was the newspapers that gave him the story he most wanted to hear. It was as he was leaving the warehouse, on his way to Shoreditch station, that he saw the words in bold type, hanging on the side of the kiosk.

Just three words—but it was the most brilliant sentence Henry had ever read. He fumbled in his pocket for cash and bought the paper, and there it was, on the front page.

The story went on over the page and there was a picture of Shan signing books, surrounded by children. Henry read the article with a mixture of emotions. Of course, he was delighted that his plan had succeeded. But at the same time he was a little nervous that the police had arrived so quickly at the murder method . . . the poison pen letter, as the newspaper had put it. In a way, he was glad—he wanted the world to know that the writer had been punished, not just struck down by a piece of bad chicken or fish. But if they had found out this much, this quickly, might their investigation lead them to him? No. Neither the paper nor the envelope could be traced to him. The letter had been postmarked in Brighton, miles away. He had been careful to avoid leaving fingerprints. And even the poison that he had used was fairly common. There were plenty of people who could have gotten hold of it.

Henry watched the six o'clock news with a sense of growing confidence. He watched the news again at ten o'clock and eleven o'clock, and each time the report was the same. The death of the young writer was a tragedy. The police were looking into it. But so far they had no clues, nothing to report.

Henry went to bed that night fairly certain that he had gotten away with it. It didn't even occur to him that he had taken a human life, that he would have left behind a grieving family . . . not to mention several thousand fans. As far as he was concerned, what he had done had been well executed. Nothing more, nothing less. It was as if the murder was a story that he had plotted, one with a happy ending.

It was by now the end of November and the weather had recently turned cold. There was only one radiator in Henry's room, and although it was turned on full, it never seemed to give out much heat. The window frame was cracked and there were some nights when the wood rattled and cold breezes danced around the room. This was just such a night. More than that, a mist seemed to have risen around Victoria. There was a full moon but it seemed pale and yellow, unable to penetrate through the clouds.

Henry tried to sleep but he couldn't. Though he pulled the duvet over his head, the chill still got in. He could feel it around his neck, creeping down his spine. His room was always a little damp, but tonight he could almost see the moisture glistening on the walls. He was annoyed with himself. This was supposed to be his night of triumph. Maybe he should have gone out and bought himself a drink . . . or several. He had committed murder and gotten away with it! Surely that was something to celebrate.

“Henry . . .”

The voice came as a whisper out of the darkness. He had dreamed it, of course. It was a ghost voice, like something out of a horror film, rising up from a swamp or out of a ruined castle. Only, how could he have dreamed it when he wasn't yet asleep?

“Henry . . .” The whisper came again, louder this time and filled with venom.

Henry hunched himself up in bed, drawing his knees into his chest, looking around him. There was a strange green glow outside his window. His room looked out onto a strip of wasteland with the railway just beyond. Normally, he could see walls covered with graffiti and topped with broken glass and barbed wire. But the mist had grown thicker. It had smothered the outside world. And as he watched, wide-eyed, he saw it trickling under his door, filling the very room where he lay.