Necropolis (30 page)

"I'm sorry, Scarly," he was saying. "I had to do it. It was the only way. They've promised that they won't hurt you, and my reward, the reward for both of us — we're going to be rich! You have no idea how much power they have. And we're going to be part of it…their new world."

Of course he had been in it all along. He worked for Nightrise. He had invited her here, made her leave school early with no explanation. He had been skulking somewhere nearby, leaving her in their clutches.

And finally he had been positioned here, just in case she tried to get onto the ship…

Scarlett thought of all the people who had tried to help her, all the people who had died because of her.

Mr. and Mrs. Soong had spent just a few minutes with her, but it had been enough. She had killed them.

She listened to this pathetic man — he was still jabbering at her — and she spat in his face.

Then someone grabbed her from behind. It was Karl. She didn't know where he had come from, but the chauffeur was unbelievably strong. He lifted her into the air, then dashed her down. Her head hit the concrete so hard that she thought her skull must have cracked. A bolt of sheer pain ripped across her vision.

In the final moments of consciousness, she saw a whole series of images, flickering across her vision like an out-of-control slide show. There was Matt, the boy she had never met in the real world, on his way to Macao. There were the other three — Scott, Jamie, and Pedro — gazing at her helplessly. There was the beach where she had found herself night after night. And there, once again, was the neon sign with a symbol that was shaped like a triangle, and two words: signal eight The letters flared in the darkness. Looking through them, she saw the chairman, Audrey Cheng, Father Gregory, and, for one last brief moment, her father.

"It's coming," she managed to whisper to them.

Then the darkness rushed in, slamming into her like an express train, and at that moment she felt something unlock inside her. It was like a window being shattered, and she knew that she would never be the same again.

***

signal nine

The letters burned in brilliant neon light. There was a symbol beside it, an hourglass, and Scarlett almost wanted to laugh because she knew what it was saying. Time's up. The countdown has begun.

The dragon began to move. Nothing could get in its way.

It was heading for Hong Kong.

TWENTY-THREE

Matt's Diary [3]

I don't think I'm going to be able to write much more of this diary. I don't find it easy, putting all these words together, and anyway, what's the point? Who will ever read it? Richard thought it was a good idea, but really it just fills in time.

I can't believe we've finally made it to Macao. Jamie is asleep, worn out with jet lag after another flight across the world, and Richard is in a room next door. In an hour's time, we're going to meet a man named Han Shan-tung, who can help us get into Hong Kong. We've waited almost a week for him to turn up, and I just hope that we haven't been wasting our time. We have no idea at all what's been happening to Scarlett, whether she is even alive or dead. Harry Foster, the Australian newspaperman who was at the meeting of the Nexus, sent someone to meet her — an assistant from his office. Maybe he managed to track her down, but we never heard. The assistant went missing…presumed dead.

The Old Ones are there, waiting for me to arrive. In a way, it's extraordinary that they've managed to keep themselves hidden, but that has always been their way. When I was in Yorkshire, they worked through Jayne Deverill and the villagers who lived at Lesser Mailing. In Peru, it was Diego Salamanda.

Now it's Nightrise. They like people to do their dirty work for them, and when war finally breaks out, as I know it must, my guess is that they won't reveal themselves until the end. And by then it will be too late. They will have won.

Maybe the five days we had in London were worth it after all. Jamie enjoyed himself, seeing all the sights, and in the end, I enjoyed being with him. Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, Harrods, the London Dungeon. Richard kept us busy, maybe because he wanted to keep our minds off what lay ahead. We also spoke to Pedro and Scott in Vilcabamba, talking on the satellite phone. Pedro is worried about Scott. He still seems far away, as if he isn't even on our side. I know he's angry that I separated him from Jamie, but I still think it was a good idea. He isn't ready yet.

And then the flight. London to Singapore, followed by Singapore to Macao. I'm too tired to sleep. When I've finished this, I'll have another shower. A cold one, this time. Maybe it will wake me up.

I don't know what to make of Macao. If anyone had asked me about it six months ago, I wouldn't even have been able to point to it on a map. I hadn't heard of it. As it turns out, it's a chunk of land, just ten miles from one end to the other. And it's packed with some of the weirdest buildings I've ever seen. Take the ferry terminal. If you're coming in from Hong Kong on the Jetfoil, it's the first building you'll see, and you'd have thought they could have made it a bit welcoming. It's not. It's a slab of white concrete, surrounded by overpasses. It's drab and ugly.

But then you come to the casinos, and you think you must have landed on another planet. Macao makes its money out of gambling…horse racing, greyhound racing, blackjack, and roulette. The casinos look like nothing I've ever seen before. One of them is all gold, like a piece of metal bent in the middle.

There's another one like a sort of crazy birthday cake. The biggest and the most spectacular reminded me of a giant flower. It was five times taller than anything else in the city. I got a crick in my neck trying to see the top.

The old part of Macao was better. Richard told me that it had once belonged to the Portuguese, and he pointed out their influence in some of the palaces with their pillars, arcades, and balconies jutting out over the street. But it was still a bit of a dog's dinner. The traffic and the crowds were Chinese. The older buildings seemed to be in better condition than the new ones, which were all dirty and falling down. The Portuguese had built pretty squares and fountains. Then the Chinese had come along and added casinos, shops, and apartment buildings, forty or fifty floors high. And now they were all stuck next to each other, like quarreling neighbors.

Jamie was disappointed too. "I once read a book about China," he told me. "It was in the house when we were in Salt Lake City. I never read very much, but it had dragons and magicians, and I thought it must be a really cool place. I guess the book was wrong…"

We were met at the airport by a young Chinese guy who was carrying a big bunch of white flowers. That was a bit weird, but it was the signal we had been given so we would recognize him. He dumped them straight away. There was a Rolls Royce parked outside, license plate HST 1. I noticed that it had been parked in a no-waiting zone, but nobody had given it a ticket. So that told me something about Han Shan-tung. He likes to show off.

The journey from the airport took about half an hour. It was pouring with rain, which certainly didn't make Macao look any better. Fortunately, it eased off a little by the time we arrived here.

And where are we now?

The driver stopped in front of a wide flight of stairs that climbed up between two old-looking walls that had been painted yellow. The steps were decorated with a black-and-white mosaic, and there were miniature palms growing in neat beds along the side. There were clumps of trees behind the walls. They were still in leaf, filling the sky and blocking out any sight of the shops and apartments. It was like walking through a park. The driver got out of the car and signaled for us to follow him. We grabbed our bags and went about halfway up the stairs, until we came to a metal gate that swung open as we approached.

It wasn't a park on the other side. It was a private garden with a courtyard, a marble fountain that had been switched off, and, beyond, a really amazing house built in a Spanish style. The house was painted yellow, like the wall, with green shutters on the windows and a balcony on the first floor. It looked a bit like an embassy, somewhere you weren't normally allowed. The house seemed to belong to its own world. It was right in the middle of Macao, and yet somehow it was outside it.

"Quite a place," Richard said.

The driver gestured and we went in.

The front door also opened as we walked toward it. A woman was waiting for us on the other side. She was some sort of servant, dressed in a long, black dress with a gray shirt buttoned up to the neck. She bowed and smiled.

"Welcome to the home of Mr. Shan-tung. I hope you had a good journey. Please, will you come this way? I will take you to your rooms. Mr. Shan-tung invites you to join him for dinner at eight o'clock."

It was one of the most beautiful houses I had ever seen. Everything was very simple but somehow arranged for maximum effect so that a single vase on a shelf, sitting under a spotlight, let you know that it was Ming or something and probably worth a million pounds. The floors were polished wood, the ceilings double height, the walls clean and white. As we went upstairs, we passed paintings by Chinese artists. They were very simple and clean, and they probably cost a fortune too.

We all had bedrooms looking out over the garden, on the same floor—Jamie and me sharing, Richard on his own. The beds had already been turned down with sheets that looked brand-new. There was a TV

and a fridge filled with Coke and fruit juice. It was like being in a five-star hotel, but (as Richard said) hopefully without the bill.

We were all dirty and tired after so much traveling, and Jamie and I tossed a coin to see who got to shower first. I won and stood naked in a cubicle that would have been big enough to sleep in, with steaming water jetting at me from nine directions. There were robes to put on when we came out. Jamie went next. He was asleep before he was even dry.

I would have liked to have slept.

I've been thinking a lot about the library that I visited. Did I make the right decision? I didn't read the book, and I'm beginning to wish I had. Right now I'm just a forty-five-minute journey away from Hong Kong, and I have no idea what I will find there. The book would have told me. It might have warned me not to go.

But it might also have told me when and how my life will end — and who would want to read that?

It makes me think of a computer game that I used to play when I was living in Ipswich. It was an adventure, a series of puzzles that took you through a whole set of different worlds. Shortly after I met Kelvin, he showed me how to download a cheat. It gave me all the answers. It took away the mystery.

Suddenly I knew everything I wanted — but here's the strange thing. I never played the game again. I just wasn't interested.

Why did the Librarian show it to me? What was the point he was trying to make? And for that matter, who was he? He never even told me his name. When I think about it, the dreamworld really annoys me.

It's supposed to help us, but all it ever gives us is puzzles and clues. I know that it's important to what's going to happen, that it's there for a reason. One day, perhaps, I'll find out what that reason is.

I've written enough. It's twenty to eight. Time to wake Jamie and to meet our host. Han Shan-tung.

Hong Kong is waiting for us. It's out there in the darkness, but I can feel it calling.

Very soon now, I will arrive.

TWENTY-FOUR

Master of the Mountain

Han Shan-tung was one of the most impressive men Matt had ever seen. He was like a bronze Buddha in a Chinese temple. He had the same presence, the same sense of power. He wasn't exactly fat, but he was very solid, built like a sumo wrestler. You could imagine him breaking every one of your fingers when you shook hands.

His hair was black. His face was round, with thick lips and hard, watchful eyes. He was elegantly dressed in a suit that was obviously expensive, possibly silk. His fingers, resting on the table in front of him, were manicured, and he wore a slim, silver wedding ring. There was a packet of cigarettes and a gold lighter on the table next to him…his one vice perhaps. But none of his guests was ever going to give him a lecture on smoking. Everything about the man, even the way he sat there — still and silent —

suggested that he wasn't someone to be argued with. He was someone who was used to being obeyed.

And yet his manner was pleasant enough. "Good evening," he said. "Please come and sit down." His English was perfect. Every word was well modulated and precise.

He was sitting in the dining room, at the head of a long table that could have seated ten people but which had been laid for only four. The room was as elegant as the rest of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a wooden terrace and views of the garden beyond. Richard, Matt, and Jamie took their places. At once, a door at the side slid open and two women appeared, pouring water and shaking out the napkins.

The man waited until they had gone. "My name is Han Shan-tung," he announced.

"I'm Richard Cole." Richard introduced himself, then the boys. He had already decided he was going to use the names that were on their passports. "This is Martin Hopkins. And Nicholas Helsey."

"I would have said that this was Matthew Freeman and Jamie Tyler," Shan-tung muttered. "And I would add that it is discourteous to lie to a man in his own home — but I will overlook it, as I can understand that you are nervous. Let me assure you, Mr. Cole, that I know everything about all three of you. More, in fact, than you perhaps know about yourselves. Otherwise you would not be here."

"And we know nothing about you," Richard replied. "That's why we have to be careful."

"Very wise. Well, it will be my pleasure to enlighten you. But first we should eat."

As if on cue, the two women returned, carrying plates of food. Silently, they laid out a Chinese dinner. It was a world apart from the sweet-and-sour, deep-fried grease balls that Matt had once purchased at his local takeaway in Ipswich. The dinner came in about a dozen china bowls — fish, meat, rice, noodles —